Folsom Prison Blues
by ragna ayanami
Summary: 3rd installment. What did she expect, a fairy tale story where everyone got a happy ending? That wasn't going to happen. This was real life and it was harsh and bleak with death at every corner. They weren't perfect for each other, hell they weren't even good, but…Wasn't that better than nothing?
1. Happy New Year!

Whoop, whoop!

Welcome to the first chapter of 'Folsom Prison Blues', the third installment of my TWD saga. For those that have already read the first two, I hope you enjoy Samara's new adventures and for the newcomers I recommend reading 'I Walk the Line' and 'Ring of Fire', in that order.

Enjoy!

 _ **All characters (except for my OC's) belong to AMC's TWD and to Robert Kirkman.**_

* * *

Heavy breaths.

Crunching leaves.

Two women ran through a withered forest, disturbing the thick blanket of snow.

 _Fuck!_

The one with the sunglasses panted heavily as she jumped over an overgrown root. She could hear the men yelling like wild animals. They were out hunting and the two women were their targets.

—But what they didn't know was that Samara and Michonne were far from damsels and more in the line of flesh-ripping wolves.

The women ran faster as the hoots and hollers neared. Entering a clearing, they were greeted by two walkers who were easily dispatched, if not with annoyance. The undead have become rather tiresome theses past few months, being treated more like pests than actual dangers.

The women's eyes darted in every direction, unsure of which way to go.

"We can't go back to the town." Samara growled harshly. "They'll follow us back to our place."

The dark woman nodded knowingly as she searched for something only she knew. When she found it, she paused for a few moments as her eyes darted from the downed walkers to the tree tops.

"What?"

Samara tried to follow her reasoning but couldn't find one. Either Michonne wanted to drop those undead from higher ground or she wanted to hang them.

Michonne looked at the walkers again before determination settled in. The gaze she laid upon the Native sent a shiver down her spine.

 _What the hell is Michonne up to?_

* * *

Samara clenched her teeth. Here she was, hiding in the bush like some Zulu warrior waiting for her enemies to appear while Michonne stood perched atop a tree, ready to ambush.

They had some time before the men could arrive to send a message. Enough time for Michonne to indulge in her own dark witticism. The crazier someone thought you were, the higher the chances to be left alone.

Samara's breath hitched as the men entered the clearing.

There were four of them: an Asian man, a young Hispanic, a Georgia man that looked like one of those crazy gun-toting hicks, and him—the metal-hand hunter. He was the real problem. Samara believed he was a hunter judging by the way he moved in the forest, silently and at ease as if he had practiced this all his life.

The beads of sweat rolling down the side of the marshal's temple got absorbed into her mask. The men were talking among themselves as they finally realized the meaning of the grotesque display of walker body parts.

 **Go Back.**

The metal-hand guy laughed in hilarity, calling it a 'biter-gram'. The young Hispanic was the opposite of amused as he took a few steps back in fear. The hick took offense as he got in the others face, ready to smack the sissiness out of him.

Michonne gave the signal.

With a deep breath, the marshal leaped out of her hiding place and ran along the trees making enough noise to catch the others attention.

"What's the deal, ladies? You gonna leap out of the woods, two against four, all of us armed to the teeth and you with just your little pig-stickers?"

 _Pig-stickers my ass_. They had guns, Samara more so than Michonne, only to be used in the most extreme cases, and this situation could be counted as one.

As the metal-hand hick detached from the group to get a clearer view of the runner, Michonne dropped from the tree and decapitated the closest man— the gun-toter. Alarmed, the rest of the men turned just as Michonne stabbed the Asian. Gun aimed, the metal-hand guy was seconds away from pulling the trigger, but Samara was faster as she shot the man in the shoulder, destabilizing him.

Michonne retracted her katana and ran back into the protective cover of the forest. Aiming again, Samara shot at the hick only for him to hide behind the thick trunk of a tree. The other man standing, the young one, remained traumatized by Michonne's brutal executions, blood splattered all over his face.

A shootout ensued as both the marshal and man tried to kill each other.

"Come on, sweetheart! You can do better than that!"

The marshal's annoyance spiked further as the man kept taunting her, thinking that his jeers and calls will prompt her to make a mistake, but Samara wasn't stupid enough to get herself killed over a few lewd and chauvinistic remarks.

Seeing no end to this standoff, Samara took out the smoke-grenade she kept at her belt in case of emergencies and threw it in his direction. Purple smoke clouded the entire area making the man choke on the heavy gas.

Using the protective cover of the smoke, Samara ran in the direction Michonne left.

Breathing heavily, the marshal's boots hit the ground as lightly as possible. Sweat poured in abundance as an unwelcome ghost crawled down her back. Recognizing the signs of an incoming episode, Samara quickly pulled out a small orange container and popped a white, rounded pill. Her teeth crushed the capsule until there was nothing left but fine powder. Despite being the fastest way to numbness, it wasn't the smartest. Unfortunately, she didn't have the time or patience for the normal way at the moment.

The marshal left the decayed forest and hit pavement. Looking around the deserted stretch of road, Samara kept her gun at ready.

Rustle.

Several bushes shook before a body came out. With a breath of relief, the marshal lowered her gun as Michonne walked out, her dark eyes darting back to the forest.

"Dead?"

Samara shook her head. "Had to use a smoke-grenade. The other one froze."

Michonne didn't look happy and Samara was of the same mind, but they couldn't afford it. The marshal hadn't wanted to leave any witnesses of their existence behind, but pressing matters called them back to their hideout. The sun was about two hours from setting and they couldn't get caught outside in the dark.

Both women jumped in alarm as a gunshot echoed into the silence of the world. Like statues they remained unmoving, listening and observing for any changes.

Minutes passed and no man came out of the woods, guns blazing. Whatever happened to the two men will remain a mystery as both women disappeared into the black and white forest, never to return.

* * *

Samara and Michonne slipped unnoticed through the group of undead.

The town where they had sought shelter was a remote place and until now had been a quiet one, but for the past two weeks, more and more walkers had started to show up. This alerted the women that they would have to leave soon lest they be overrun.

–But there was one obstacle.

The two women reached a meat and butcher shop called 'Sportsman's Deer Cooler' and quietly opened the front door. Michonne was first to go in then Samara after a last perusal around.

There was no indication that anyone alive lived in this small country town and the women preferred it this way. They made sure that if anyone was stupid or crazy enough to want to step on their territory, they wouldn't be alerted by their presence and as such the shop appeared abandoned.

Inside, Samara and Michonne stepped into the front room which also served as the two armless walkers spot. They stirred to attention once fresh meat passed their way, but except for watching and swaying on their feet they took no further action.

Michonne went through a door on the right where the shop's defunct meat freezer served as their sleeping area while Samara stayed behind as she ventured a bit further from Michonne's two 'friends'. Even knowing that they posed no threat, Samara still couldn't stand them. Throwing the backpack onto one of the butcher tables, she started to inspect her findings—some canned food, four bottles of water and a few powerbars. The backpack on Michonne's back contained the same with just one important addition, medicine. Medicine they desperately needed for Andrea's pneumonia.

It had been a tough winter, much rougher than Samara had expected so down south. A chill and maybe a few snowflakes, not foot deep in snow and below zero degrees, and now one of them had gotten sick. Severely enough that they had to run ten kilometers to a nearby town where an undersized clinic was located. The clinic had been in disarray with upturned furniture, pills bottles and boxes thrown off the rafters and trampled upon.

With a sigh, Samara brushed the leaves and dirt off her dark grey Confederate greatcoat. Even inside, the women couldn't take off their outdoor clothes as the chill crept in everywhere. They had started a fire several times inside the building, but stopped after they almost burned down the building.

Taking the pair of dark rounded sunglasses off, Samara placed them atop Maggie's cowboy hat. The lower-face skeleton mask that the marshal had found several months ago was still in one piece as she tugged it off along with an over-sized scarf of the darkest shade of red. Her clothes were all dark in color, but warm for winter, complete with black army boots and leather gloves.

Looking at the gloves now, Samara grimaced as tiny bits of walker flesh still clung to them. She had had the honor of holding the walkers while Michonne chopped them up. With disgust, the marshal wiped the gloves on a frozen piece of cloth that had once been an apron.

Picking up the backpack, the marshal headed to check up on her sick friend, but froze when she saw no sign of the two women. With her machete out, the marshal quickened to the backroom where the garage door was.

 _If Andrea is dead—_

Pushing the door aside, she found Michonne crouched over a barely conscious Andrea.

"How is she?"

"Worse." The dark woman said as she helped the blonde take small sips of water. "She's burning up and shivering."

"Why did she crawl here?" Samara watched in worry as cold sweat poured down Andrea's even paler skin.

"Said she was following Amy."

The Native cursed as she massaged her worry lines away. Andrea was not in her right mind as the fever had spiked dangerously after they left hours ago. She was in a really perilous situation.

"Come on. Let's take her back."

Michonne took hold of Andrea's arm while Samara grabbed the other. Physically dragging the blonde as she mumbled dazedly was torture for both women. Having to see her like this never got better. Back in the meat locker, Michonne tucked the blonde back in her makeshift bed.

"We need to slip the IV in."

Samara took it as her cue in finding a vein on Andrea's arm. It didn't take long as the blonde's sickly paleness made most of her veins visible. Tapping on a fat one, she waited for Michonne to hang the liquid antibiotics bag and hand her over the needle. Slipping it gently, Samara placed a stretch of ducktape to keep it in place and with Michonne's help, covered Andrea in enough blankets to smother her.

"Michonne, if the antibiotics don't work…You understand what we'll have to do."

"I know."

The sharp and brisk answer was enough to convey the sword-wielder's opinion of this sensitive subject.

"I hope it works." Samara spoke softly.

Andrea had been sick for the past two weeks. They hadn't given it much thought at first, chalking it up to a common cold, but as time passed, the coughing got worse, she ate less and slept more, and soon the fever hit—from there it went downhill rather quickly.

Looking at her companion, Samara knew that this must be harder for her than for herself. Michonne had gotten fairly attached to Andrea over these past few months and Samara was pretty sure some of those feelings ventured past just friendship.

"Michonne…This is the second time in a month we encountered that guy with the metal hand."

Looking deeply into Samara's eyes, Michonne realized her train of thought. "You think they're looking for us."

"If they hadn't then, they will now."

Michonne nodded as she knew those men will want retaliation for the deaths they had caused. She just knew what the marshal was thinking right now: they needed to leave. Looking at Andrea, the sword-wielder knew that if they moved right now, the blonde wouldn't make it.

"How long will it take for her to get better?"

"Your guess is as good as mine."

The truth was Samara wasn't even sure Andrea was going to live through the night. She needed a hospital, not two women who guided themselves by simple knowledge—you get sick, antibiotics cure all.

They were playing with fire.

* * *

Shiver.

Samara wrapped a fluffy blanket tightly around her as she sat on a green lawn chair with her feet propped on the roof ledge, watching the activity below. There was a military issued sniper rifle resting in her lap and a small flask of hot coffee mixed with whisky in the inner breast pocket of her coat. Samara had opted to sit in a light snowstorm rather than remain around the sickly Andrea. The thought that the woman could die at any moment's notice had the Native withdraw into the cold.

It was an unpleasant feeling, this waiting game. Every time the blonde coughed or her breath hitched, it sent both women into a state of panic, fearing it was her last. Despite her jaded outlook, Samara had never been able to watch those close to her slowly wither and die. She couldn't understand how Michonne could and for that respected her immensely. The woman had a hide tougher than hers…or she was just better at masking it.

The still screech of metal brought Samara out of her brooding state. There was a small door that accessed the roof via a rickety ladder and, lo and behold, Michonne was coming to greet her.

Samara waited for her to take a seat on the roof ledge and enjoy the relaxing view ahead.

Neither of the two women spoke as they stared out into the darkness, the walkers barely made visible by the pure white moon. The snowflakes were also a good touch as they made everything seem otherworldly.

"Enjoying yourself up here?"

Samara snorted. "I'm freezing my tits off, what do you think?"

Michonne smirked for a fraction of a second before settling into her neutral front. "Anything interesting?"

"If by interesting you mean more and more walkers each day, then yes, this is turning out to be a most interesting night."

The sword-wielder sighed quietly exasperated as she knew where Samara's words were headed—the same direction she went yesterday and the day before.

"We can't move, not now."

"When, Michonne? When we get overrun?" Samara frowned as she glared sideways. "You know they're coming after us. It's only a matter of time until this whole town is filled with walkers. We have to be one step ahead of them, always."

The sword-wielder frowned darkly as she looked at the walkers below. A week tops and the town's population will be back to its normal numbers, but if they moved Andrea before she got even a little bit better, it would spell her doom.

—And Michonne couldn't have that.

"When Andrea's fever lowers, we leave."

Samara leaned back in her chair defeated. Just like her, Michonne was very stubborn, so trying to change her mind was like talking to a brick wall—useless and frustrating. The marshal wondered if this is how the Kentucky sheriff felt whenever she refused to go along with his choices.

 _Most probably…_

"There's a car I hid in an auto-garage shop a few streets away. At that time, I thought it would be better to be prepared than leave it on the last second." The marshal then turned to Michonne with a pointed look. "If we use the car that means we're not taking your 'boyfriends' with us."

Their stink had gotten embedded in her skin so badly that it didn't even matter if she bathed once a week, it still clung to her like a second shadow. The dark woman looked like she wanted to object, but pursed her lips instead. Whatever attachment she had to those two undead men, she needed to disregard it. Samara wouldn't tolerate them anymore.

The Native sighed despondently. In a few days they'll be on the road again. Their stay here had been their longest and she wasn't sure they'll be able to find another safe enough place this far into winter.

 _Gods, I wish spring would just arrive already._

She needed heat and warmth. The marshal was Arizona born and bred, where the sun roasted you until your skin blistered. She would rather pant and sweat under the scorching sun than live in this bitter cold. The cool mood she was in soured almost immediately. The thought of summer always brought out memories of Hershel's farm and, subsequently, the Atlanta group.

Four months have passed since they parted ways and she still remembered that night with bitter resentment. Samara had tried getting past it and sometimes she succeeded, but most of the time she was left angry and with the furious urge to hit something.

Exhaling loudly, Samara took a swing out of her flask. She cringed as the sharp tang of Irish whiskey hit her taste buds. Ever since she quit smoking, the marshal supplied her nicotine habit with alcohol whenever she was lucky enough to find some. Not the wisest of ideas, but it was becoming increasingly difficult to care anymore. Life kept kicking her down at every turn and she was starting to get fed up. Samara desperately needed a break from everything. The constant vigilance, having to take care of the other two women, lack of food, suspicion and making decisions that hopefully won't get them all killed had left her in a state of extreme fatigue.

The worst part was that Samara couldn't just leave it all behind and run…Actually, she could, but she didn't want to. She cared about Andrea and Michonne too much to just leave them behind. They were her only companions and they had fought side by side and saved each other's asses on more than one account.

—Samara would give her life for either of them.

"Remembering different times?"

Michonne's deep voice broke through Samara's forlorn thoughts.

"Something like that." Samara passed the flask and watched as Michonne downed a healthy dose. The grimace that followed had the Native snickering in amusement.

"I thought this was coffee." Michonne spat the bitterness on the white snow.

"It is, only with whiskey."

"You shouldn't drink." The disapproving frown had the fun swiftly disappear from the situation.

"There was only a little bit left in the bottle. Not enough to get tipsy on."

"Doesn't matter." Michonne then did the unthinkable. She poured the contents of the flask over the edge of the roof.

Quickly, Samara reached for it to stop the precious liquid from getting wasted, but Michonne was quicker. She moved the flask out of the Native's reach until there were only a few drops left and then, callously, threw the flask into the darkness.

"Godddammit, Michonne!"

Samara stood up as she heard the faint clank of metal hit the pavement. With a glare, she turned on the dark woman more than ready to pounce on her, claws out. "Why the hell did you do that?!"

"You know why." Michonne tensed, ready for any kind of violence from the marshal. It wouldn't be the first time they had to tussle.

As the Native was about to unleash a tirade, a sudden pain sparked up her back all the way up to her brain, cutting the words right out of her mouth. Samara bent over herself, her teeth sinking into her lip to stop the screams from coming out.

Michonne simply watched ever vigilant in case it got worse. She had gotten used to witnessing these episodes and while she hated the situation, there was nothing she could do to ameliorate the pain.

With shaky fingers, Samara reached inside her coat and brought out the orange container. Popping two pills into her mouth, she crushed them with urgent fervor, ready to be rid of the horrible ache.

 _Deep, deep breaths._

Slowly, the marshal lowered herself back onto the lawn chair. Every move inflicted on her spine had Samara wanting to climb the walls and wail at the moon. She passionately prayed for relief, for the pills to kick in and spare her this horrid ache. Even after so long, it still hurt like the first time and there was no end in sight any time soon.

A lack of feeling soon enveloped her and Samara welcomed the mind-numbing effect as she felt her limbs go heavy and her eyes droopy.

"Hey…" Samara felt someone shake her arm gently. "You alright now?"

Half-lidded eyes gazed at Michonne with barely any life. The dark woman sighed as she shook her head.

"You shouldn't have taken two."

Samara knew that, but they weren't in any immediate danger and she wanted to feel better.

"And then you wonder why I don't want you drinking."

The Native snorted sarcastically as she threw a wide, mocking grin her companion's way. "Because they'll fuck with my head."

A slap strong enough to wipe the smile off the marshal's face was Michonne's answer. The sword-wielder got into Samara's face, caging her in with barely contained fury.

"I'll tolerate you doping up because I know you have good reasons to, but I won't accept you mixing pills with booze."

Michonne's guttural growl brought back some linear consciousness. Staring into those bottomless coffee pools, Samara could almost see the steel inside them and behind that fortification, the concern she constantly carried like a lingering ghost.

"Fine. Have it your way, Michonne."

The woman sat back onto the edge with a small huff. She kept her gaze ahead, too worked up to look at the marshal right now.

The silence stretched on between them. It wasn't awkward or unwelcome, just a steady one. One needed after their passive aggressive confrontation. It happened every now and then for the two women to butt heads and in the post-heat they would either stew in their anger or sit quietly, letting their minds wander.

"You know what day is today?"

Michonne gazed at the marshal from the corner of her eyes with only a slip of curiosity. "I lost count some time ago. It's just seasons for me."

"It's New Year's Eve."

"So?"

The disinterest Michonne showed had Samara pout. "Just saying…"

"You never just say."

Samara gazed past Michonne with something akin to defeat. Now, the sword-wielder's interest piqued as she rarely got to see the marshal so dejected.

"Do you think they'll ever die out?" There was a sense of finiteness to her words. "Your pets have been with you for what? Six-seven months? They haven't eaten any flesh since you cut jaws off and they still function. I thought that maybe winter would kill them off, not send them in this strange sort of hibernation."

"It just made them weaker and slower." Michonne shrugged. "Nothing much has changed."

Samara sighed. At least Michonne didn't dwell on things for long. She just acknowledged them and moved on…At least on the surface.

"Yeah, we're still fucked." Samara settled back into her chair desponded. The fog had lifted from her eyes during their talk and now she had a relatively good sight. It was the same. Walkers remained stationery and the snow kept falling from the sky.

 _So…This is how the world will be from now on, huh?_

The corner of her lips weighted down as melancholy took over.

"Stop it." There was a stern look about Michonne."Wherever your mind is wandering right now, it's making you look depressed. Get it out of your head. We don't have time for self-pity or what if's."

A small grin lit up the Native's face. Michonne always could read her like a book and then bring her back with her feet to the ground.

Raising her chin, Samara closed her eyes as snowflakes touched her hot skin. The contrast of hot and cold made her body tingle pleasantly. The Native sighed in delight as she felt the melted flakes roll off her face and down her neck.

"I always hated winter. I'm more of a spring type of girl. Warm weather, not too hot or too cold. Just right."

A snort.

"Want me to braid your hair with flowers come spring?"

"Fuck off." Samara chuckled in good nature as she blew off her companion.

The marshal's laughter must have hit a cord in the ever grave Michonne as a smile cracked her sternly aligned lips.

"My daughters loved winter." Michonne wrapped her jacket more tightly around her. "Snowmen, snowball fights, Christmas and presents. I hated shoveling the snow. That was a bitch."

Samara tenderly smiled as the past flew before her eyes.

"My husband loved Christmas. He always exaggerated when it came to decorating. Every Christmas our house looked like it came straight out of Whoville. He was like a kid during that time of the year. I was never that enthusiastic." The smile faded as reality seeped in. "I just wish…"

"Yeah, I know." Michonne's voice lowered as she gazed into the faraway moon.

Silence pervaded, each locked in their own thoughts, but surprisingly, Samara wasn't thinking about the past, but the future.

"Hey…You got any New Year's resolutions?"

The dead look Michonne gave her could crack stone. "Sure…survive till next year."

"That's a good one." Samara nodded, unexpectedly serious. "I might write it on my list."

"You do that." That seemed to be the end of the conversation as Michonne picked her up by the arm and pulled her to her feet. "Come on. You stay out here, you'll freeze to death."

Samara grumbled in displeasure, but nonetheless followed Michonne's lead as she slowly picked up her rifle. Straightening out, the marshal heard Michonne's deep, mellow voice carried out by the night air.

"Happy New Year, Samara."

A genuine smile stretched the Native's lips.

"Happy New Year, Michonne."

* * *

A callous thumb brushed over Samara's face immortalized into the photo.

A tired sigh.

How many times had he done this? The same exact movements whenever the two pictures where in his hands? Always gazing or touching the contours of her face. How many times had he studied the photos either because he was bored or because, later, he seemed genuinely interested?

—When did this obsession even begin?

Daryl breathed in deeply as the Indian's frozen smile stared back at him. Four months have passed since that disastrous night at the farm and Daryl still felt guilt at times for not doing anything to prevent her death. It was irrational since nobody could have done anything if they had been in his position, but he still felt like what he'd done or hadn't was sin.

It's because of these damn pictures!

Furiously, Daryl clenched them in his hands, rumpling them up further. If it weren't for these photos he wouldn't be so obsessed over a dead woman. He would have forgotten her with time and moved on with his life, but now he was stuck in this limbo.

He had gotten rid of them several times only for him to pick them back up. The hunter even threw them in a fire only to burn his hands trying to extinguish them. No matter what he did, Daryl always ended up with the photos back in his pocket.

At times, he seriously believed the Indian had put a curse on him in her dying moments—never let him have rest just to have the last laugh.

"Daryl."

Startled, the hunter turned with lightning speed, knife in hand and ready to use.

Alas, it was only Rick, who immediately backed away once he saw the shiny edge of the knife, one hand on his own machete reflexively. Daryl sighed as he sheathed his weapon and stared sternly at the sheriff.

"What?" He huffed in annoyance, more at himself that he got so distracted that he didn't even notice the man walk up to him. This was one of the other little problems that the pictures brought—his whole attention. "What is it?"

The light in the man's eyes after so many months of despondency instantly caught the hunter's interest. What happened that made Grimes happy?

"Come on."

The man broke out into a light run. Daryl straightened out the disheveled photos before he could pocket them in his pants. At the back of his head, Daryl thanked everything holy that Rick hadn't noticed the pictures. He had taken painful steps to insure nobody saw them as it would arise a barrage of question that Daryl had no idea how to answer.

Picking up speed, Daryl ran alongside his companion as they stepped over an old railway, barely visible in the snow. Running alongside it they reached a clearing where the trees and bushes were sparse and he saw what the Kentucky man had gotten so animated over.

"Shit."

—It was a prison.

Daryl couldn't believe it. All this time they had been circling this place without ever knowing of its existence. When you're concentrated only on survival, the horse blinders come up and you couldn't see the bigger picture.

There were two rows of high chain fences that seemed to be very sturdy, enough yard space for hundreds of people, not to mention a high security building that probably still had plenty of supplies, but there was only one problem—

 _Walkers._

Fat too many of them.

If it hadn't been for their presence, the prison would have been an ideal place to live in. For them to finally settle down and breathe without the burden of watching their backs at every turn. Of living in fear that their next breath would be their last.

However, looking at the sheriff, Daryl realized that his train of thought was on the same wavelength as his. The only exception was that Rick was bold and crazy enough to attempt to storm and conquer it.

 _Oh hell…_

And judging by the small smile that was lighting up his face, Daryl just knew that that was in the near future.

* * *

 _ **Foot Note:**_ So this was the first chapter. What did you guys think?

Sorry about the short action scene. I thought about making a bigger one, but then I remembered that I have a tendency to delay stories because I don't like writing action, so I left it out.


	2. Eviction Notice

Gasp.

Samara jumped into a sitting position with such speed that she almost got whiplash.

Everything was cold. Her whole body was covered in icy sweat, creeping over her skin like worms. Covering her face, the Native tried to regain her breathing as it heaved out of control.

Another nightmare.

Ever since she abruptly left the farm, Samara had been plagued with nightmares. That is, when she began sleeping again. The first week, Samara had been in the worst state of insomnia of her life. Just the act of closing her eyes brought her back beneath those two walkers—the sounds, the sights, the smells, everything came back in a blink of an eye, spiraling her down into a state of panic. She didn't even want to remember the first few weeks—waking up screaming with tears pouring down her face had been the most horrible nights of her life. The nightmares had dwindled over the last months, only one or two per week but that didn't make it better.

"How bad was it?"

Bleary eyed, the marshal found Michonne crouched next to Andrea's bed, frowning worriedly at the Native.

"Pretty bad." Samara croaked as she swung her legs over the side of the mattress and held her still heavy head in her hands. "How's Andrea?"

The ghost of a smile passed the woman's lips as her gaze returned to the blonde. "The fever is almost gone."

Samara felt a wave of relief wash over her. Andrea was going to be alright. She will survive.

—This was probably the greatest news she'd had in months.

"Also, the storm's passed."

After that night on the rooftop, a heavy snowstorm had washed over Georgia bringing the Native's plans to a halt. Two days it had snowed, covering everything in pearly white. The two women had had to mildly starve themselves, opting to give the majority of their supplies to Andrea who needed them the most.

—It was a small price to pay for the recovery of their friend.

With a groan, the marshal lifted herself off the mattress and lost herself into her daily morning routine. Half an hour later, Samara was relatively fresh and ready for a new day. There were long hours ahead awaiting her and she needed to be more than ready.

Stepping into the front of the shop, Samara came face to face with Michonne who was meticulously sharpening her blade. The clear sound of whetstone sliding against metal filled the deathly silence.

"You're heading out." There was no questioning tone to Michonne's voice, simply stating. As always.

"Yeah." Samara arranged the mask over the lower half of her face. "We need that car, Michonne."

A definitive nod. The sword-wielder knew.

"Are you taking one of them?"

"They'll just slow me down." If Mike and Terry hadn't proved useful, Samara would have cut them to pieces a long time ago. The marshal really detested having them around—like stepping in dog shit and the smell staying with you even after you wiped it off.

"I'll be back in a few hours."

Michonne nodded, her hands never breaking stride. The only change was those sharp eyes that followed the marshal until she was out the door.

* * *

Behind dark spectacles, olive eyes darted to every shady corner, every unmoving walker. No matter how deceptively quiet it was, there was always the possibility of some danger waiting around the corner.

Like a shadow Samara prowled the empty, snow-covered streets. She knew this small town like the back of her hand. Since they arrived here in November, the marshal had done nothing but pillage every building and car in sight. Everything useful that she had found had been depleted three weeks ago, prompting them to venture outside their safe area which eventually led to meeting metal-hand guy and his cohorts.

It had been inevitable, Samara though. Sooner or later, they had to run into someone just as desperate as they were. The Native just thanked her gods that they made it out alive and in one piece.

There was a harsh wind in the air. Something deep underneath her skin told Samara it was time to leave. Maybe it was her old paranoia or maybe there was some truth to her gut feeling, Samara didn't know. What she did know was that whenever these fears came about, it was a good idea to listen. She will never make a repeat of the farm incident again.

Samara stopped near the exit of the alleyway. She had reached the main road of the town and she knew that from here, she had to go past several shops until she reached the auto-repair garage where the car was waiting.

There were only a few walkers spread over the road, neither one moving. They were in hibernating mode and Samara knew that they usually remained that way even if she was just a foot apart.

Keeping to the buildings, Samara traveled further up the road. One eye on the walkers and the other on everything else.

Clank!

Samara swiftly ducked into the front door alcove of a store. The sound was reminiscent of rocks either falling or being kicked. With heavy, slow breaths she peeked over the side of the alcove. The walkers had stirred, looking around for the source of the sound, but once they found nothing they returned to their _slumber_.

The Native's heart pounded strongly against her chest. Whoever made that sound hadn't been a walker.

Rumble. Crack.

Narrow eyed, Samara aimed her gun in the direction from where the sound came and, immediately, felt like an idiot.

—It was ice.

Ice breaking from the roof of the buildings and cracking on the frozen pavement.

With an eye-roll, Samara holstered her weapon and continued on her way. Even knowing what had caused the sound, she still felt uneasy. Uneasy enough that she kept glancing back, expecting a surprise attack.

 _Something doesn't feel right._

Reaching the garage, the marshal entered the fenced building through the front door. The place was frozen in time with pieces of furniture, papers and other objects usually found in offices scattered messily. Majestic webs hung from the walls, a sanctuary for spiders and a death-trap for critters.

Without grace, Samara slashed through the webs with her machete. They were between her and the door to the garage—a hindrance.

Inside the building, she found the car exactly as she left it. Now, the problem was getting that garage door to open and starting the engine. No doubt the cold had frozen solid the metal to the ground, and as for the car, Samara hoped the battery hadn't died since she last turned it on.

With a huff, the marshal picked up a crowbar and headed straight for the door to try and break the ice formed around the bottom. Preparing for a swing, Samara raised the crowbar high—

Bump.

Wood falling down.

"Shit!"

Samara froze.

—Someone _really_ was here.

"Quiet, you dumbass!" A male voice hissed acidic.

 _Shit, there's more than one._

Samara swiftly ducked behind the car, her heart pounding inside her chest. She kept her ears sharp and her grip on the crowbar just a little more tightly.

"Do you think she heard us?"

"If she did it's because of you, dumbass."

"Stop callin' me that!"

Samara cursed lowly under her breath as she bit her lip. How the hell did they find her? It wasn't like she had just strolled down the street leisurely while whistling a jolly tune.

 _The street…_

The sounds back on the main road and the strange feeling she got—had it been them?

Samara's breath hitched. The voices were getting closer.

Quickly, the woman crawled underneath the car and took her handguns out, aiming them at the door.

Two pairs of boots entered the garage.

The men's attempts at being quiet were laughable at best. They walked around the car, each on one side and Samara had to silently turn on her back to keep them in sight, her guns aimed and ready to blow their Achilles tendons to kingdom come.

They walked around the entire garage, even tried to open the car without avail. A frustrated sigh escaped one of the men.

"She's not here."

"Maybe she left through a back door?"

"Where the fuck would she go?!"

"How the hell should I know!"

The sweat poured down Samara's temple as the men's exchange became heated. They started arguing and the marshal felt like just shooting them for all the useless noise they were making.

One of them cursed as he paced back and forth. "He ain't gonna like this. We were supposed to capture her."

Samara's teeth clenched painfully.

"You think I don't know that?" The other pair of boots then walked towards the door. "Dammit, come on. Let's check the backdoor."

As their steps got further and further away, Samara's heart slowed until it returned to normal. She wasn't out of danger yet—the two men were still inside the building. Samara got out from beneath the car and sheathed her two guns so she could pull out her silenced one instead.

Who were they? Who was this man that wanted her captured? How the hell did they even know she was in this town?

 _Wait…_

Did they know about Michonne and Andrea?

 _Fuck!_

She needed to know more. She needed to know what she was dealing with.

Her steps were silent as she tracked the two men down. The backdoor was not far from the garage—she just had to step in the web room then enter a door on the left, cross a long hallway and at the end, the backyard. The problem was the two rooms on the left side of the hallway. They could be in either of them, waiting, for all she knew.

As she walked the hallway, each door was closed and silent and only the backdoor was open. Reaching the exit, she narrowed her eyes as the bright light of noon assaulted her. One of them was present in the backyard, atop a crate near the fence, overlooking everything outside.

Throwing a glance behind her, Samara saw no sign of the other man and proceeded to approach the one in front with a knife in hand, forgoing the gun.

—She needed to do this quick and clean.

"Man, I can't see her. We should go back and tell Mer—"

The man's words died in his throat as Samara covered his mouth and plunged her knife deep into the back of his skull, right through his brain. He struggled for a second as Samara kept him upright until his movements abruptly ceased.

Samara sighed thankfully. This kill had gone down quietly and without fuss.

The second she was about to throw the body to the ground was when the other man decided to check on his companion.

"Hey, dumbass. Did you—"

The man froze as he came upon the woman he had been looking for holding the unmoving body of his friend.

A heartbeat.

Both eyed each other with their breaths held. Samara could see now that he was a total contradiction to his dead companion. While the one in her arms was bordering on skinny and white, the other was black and full of muscles.

Samara swallowed thickly. She knew just by looking at him that a physical confrontation between them will not end in her victory.

As Samara saw his hand twitch in waking consciousness, she quickly took her silenced gun out and pulled the trigger.

The man yelled in pain as the bullet hit him in the shoulder, but he doesn't go down. Samara dropped the body and ran for the fence, ready to jump. Halfway over, she is grabbed from behind and thrown to the ground harshly, her gun dropping somewhere in the snow.

"You bitch!" The man growled furiously. "You shot me!"

The man kicked Samara in the stomach making bile rise to her throat. She curled in on herself, defending herself from the onslaught as her hand conspicuously reached her feet and pulled a short knife out of her boot. She stabbed the man's foot making him howl in pain. Straining herself, Samara spat blood as she rose to her knees and reached for one of her other guns only to get dragged back by the man.

Turning around, she felt the man sit on her thighs so she wouldn't kick out and wretched the gun out her hand. With her hands free, she wasted no time in wrapping them into tight fists and punching him in his face. To her horror, it didn't even faze him.

 _What the hell is he made out of?!_

Her angry train of thought stopped with a sputter as cold fingers wrapped around her neck.

"I won't kill you, bitch." The man glowered, his teeth showing. "Just choke you long enough to pass out."

Samara didn't try to pry his hands off since it would've been a wasted effort against his beefy arms. Instead, she opted to strike the man's nose with the heel of her palm. The man wavered as he felt his nose lightly relocate into his brain, and in retaliation his grip tightened to cut off all oxygen.

Alarmed at her diming consciousness, Samara did the only thing her clouded mind could conjure in the moment and stuck her thumb into his eye. With a pained howl, the man let go of her in favor of his now bleeding organ. Samara wasted no time and delivered a strong knee to his groin. Cursing loudly, the man crouched over himself holding his privates.

Even as she was coughing and choking on spit and blood, Samara used what little energy she had left and jumped the man's back, her lean legs coiling around his arms and trapping them as her arms crawled around his throat in a chokehold.

Fucker, you're not the only one who knows how to strangle someone, Samara thought bloodthirstily as she increased the pressure.

The man threw his elbows into her sides, but Samara held on tight despite the pain. Her strong arms kept applying pressure until the man choked and sputtered saliva.

The marshal's eyes widened wildly.

Inch by inch, the man rose to his feet in an incredible display of persistence. With gasping breaths and bulging eyes, he ran backwards into the building's wall, hoping that the hit would loosen the woman's grip on him. Samara gritted her teeth as her entire body jolted and her back blazed. Her eyes widened in realization that if she didn't do something right now, she would lose the ground she had won and get squashed by this mountain of meat. Summoning all the strength she had left, Samara applied enough pressure in her arms to kill and in that moment, she didn't give a damn if he died.

The man sputtered as his neck veins bulged. To Samara's greatest relief it didn't take long for his eyes to roll upwards and finally pass out. His large body hit the ground with Samara breathing harshly atop him.

In this bitter cold, the woman could see her breath come out in small white clouds. Rolling off the body, she landed on the ground as another wave of pain washed over her back. A slither of blood escaped the corner of her mouth and slid down her cheek, staining the white ground below.

Snowflakes fell harmoniously, nature not in the slightest disturbed by the earlier life and death struggle.

Trembling, Samara searched her inner pockets for her medicine and swallowed one dryly. Despite her exhaustion, the marshal forced herself to rise to her knees and then with heavy arms, pushed herself upwards. She staggered as her legs felt stunted after gripping the man so harshly. Everything in her body hurt and if it hadn't been for her painkillers, she probably wouldn't have been able to move let alone stand.

What now? Should she kill him or make him talk? Normally, she would have bashed his brains out, but this was an exceptional case.

Samara left the man alone as she searched the building for duct tape, a gas tank and some chains. It didn't take long as the garage was practically filled with supplies and Samara got to work with sadistic glee uncharacteristic of her. After making sure every limb was tightly secured, the Native waved an open gas tank underneath the man's nose.

Instantaneously, the man woke up and started coughing as the acidic smell remained stuck in his throat.

"What the—" Between his coughs and watering eyes, the man realized the position he was in and started struggling. "Shit! Untie me!"

"How about no." Samara scoffed as stood beside him, a small red object in her hand.

"Listen to me, you cunt. If you untie me now I promise I'll go easy on you."

Blinking languidly, Samara swiftly opened the red object—which turned out to be a switchblade—and slashed the man's cheek.

"Fu—!"

"Shut the fuck up and listen. You're in no position to order me around, much less insult me. You call me something nasty again and I will cut you deeper and watch you bleed out. You understand?"

The man's nostrils flared in anger and Samara could see the bloodlust swimming in his dark pools. Closing his eyes to placate his strung-up nerves, the man took a deep breath and nodded reluctantly.

"Now…" Samara leaned over herself, her elbows on her knees. "Who the fuck are you and how did you find me?"

"My name's Jackson and Merle was the one that found you."

"Who?"

"The guy you didn't kill, bitch."

A monotone blink.

"Could you narrow it down?"

The man bit his lip in annoyance. His anger was on the verge of erupting and he'd rather not lash out and get cut up again.

It then hit Samara—

There was only one person who could carry such a hick name.

"You mean the metal-hand guy?" Samara's eyes widened as she grimaced. "He's still alive?"

"Yeah. He managed to drive you off after you killed Gargulio, Tim and Crowley."

Samara's brow rose. _Did I now?_ As far as she remembered, she and Michonne managed to kill only two of them and then they heard that gunshot echo throughout the woods.

It seemed the hick decided to kill his _friend_ off. To what means she didn't know.

"Why are you here?"

"You bitches need to answer for our dead."

"Like hell we do. Dog eat dog world, asshole, and your friends just drew the short straw. I don't have to answer for anything."

"Fuck you!" Jackson tried to jump her, forgetting that he was hog tied. He only managed to budge an inch as spit flew in the marshal's direction. "You knew nothin' about them! You killed three good people! You—"

"I don't give a shit about you or your dead friends." Samara flat out said, her tone icier than the cold outside. "You are nothing but obstacles for me. Now…"

The blade shone again as it moved ominously from his face to his crotch. The blade touched the man's covered genitals and applied with enough pressure to stop whatever incoming tirade the man was about to unleash over.

"Where is that metal-hand asshole?"

Despite the threat of losing his manhood, the man smirked vengefully.

"He's after the black bitch."

* * *

Michonne breathed in deeply as she hid in one of the separate freezers, not much spacious than a kitchen pantry. She was holding Andrea in her arms as she listened to the voices outside.

Dammit, she was in a dangerous spot. Not ten minutes ago she saw from the roof living people slinking through the streets like snakes in high grass. Their plan must have been to remain unnoticed, but Michonne was ever so vigilante.

She had counted three in total and knew, without a doubt, that she was in over her head. If Andrea hadn't been in the sickly state she was currently in then they could have dispatched them. They knew this shop and this town better—they could have easily ambushed or killed them silently.

"Come out, come out, wherever you are."

The sword-wielder's eyes widened.

She knew that voice.

How? How did he find them?

Michonne clenched her teeth until her gums hurt.

If _he_ was here, that meant he was after her and Samara. Andrea was an invisible entity in his eyes.

Michonne let the back of her head hit the wall and closed her eyes in resignation. She knew what she had to do. If she remained in hiding, sooner or later they'll find them and Michonne couldn't let them have the blonde. If there was a chance to spare her friend, she wasn't crazy enough to waste it.

The sword-wielder left the freezer, closing the door with a silent click. In her mind, she said her heartfelt goodbyes to Andrea. If she didn't live through today then she hoped her sacrifice will keep the blonde alive. Silently, the woman opened the garage door that had once been once used for loading and unloading and left the building. Walking alongside the walls she ducked corners, looking through every window for the interlopers. She could see three in the front of the shop, amusing themselves with Mike and Terry. They poked and prodded the two armless walkers, building them up into a passive frenzy. Backtracking to the back door, Michonne entered the building silently.

There was one way she could take the men out—the grenades Samara had stored near her bed. Thank god the marshal was gun crazy enough to hoard enough ammunition to destroy a town. Two months ago they had found an army barricade and Samara had been adamant in ransacking it. Michonne had been against it as she saw no point in carrying so many weapons—she survived until now with only a sword—but the marshal wouldn't have it. Andrea had agreed with the Native and so, they had embarked on a lethal expedition into the encampment which almost resulted in the sword-wielder's early demise.

Sniper rifles, automatics and semi-automatics, field supplies, grenades, smoke bombs, bullets, vests—they had taken only as much as they and the two walkers could carry leaving the rest behind for some other lost soul.

Pocketing the grenade and taking an automatic rifle, Michonne moved one of the emergency bags into Andrea's hiding place. Samara had arranged backpacks with some army supplies to last a few days for each of them. Insurance in case they had to run, either together or separately.

—A last gift to the blonde.

Stepping back into the shadows, the sword-wielder headed for the garage door.

One foot outside was all it took for the end of a shotgun to hit her in the face and throw her into darkness.

* * *

"Wake up, darlin'."

Michonne woke from the dark recesses of her subconscious, confused and with a horrible headache that pulsated heavily from the surface of her temple to the depths of her brain.

 _What the hell happened?_

Bleary-eyed, she looked around as the cogs in her mind began to furiously spin towards present events: she was in the front room of the store on her knees with her hands tied behind her back and someone holding her back upright from behind. Michonne almost wanted to hit herself; she had been caught and stripped of her weapons.

There were five men in the room with her, excluding Mike and Terry—four in front of her and the one at her back. And lo and behold, the metal-hand jackass was crouched right before her, smiling like a devil that had just condemned a poor babe's innocent soul.

"Well, well…" His grin widened smugly. "We meet again, darlin'."

Michonne glared silently.

"Aw, don't look at me like that. Here I thought we were friends." He pouted mockingly before suddenly grabbing a fistful of Michonne's dreads and smashing her face into his knee. Michonne fell to the ground, her nose bleeding. "Oops, sorry about that. My hand slipped."

The dark woman cursed foully inside her head. The bastard just brought a whole new level of pain to her still tender head. She couldn't even see straight as everything spun and was in double.

"Don't you worry your pretty jungle head." The man patted Michonne's head in mock comfort. "Your friend will be joinin' us soon and then the real fun begins."

 _Samara._ They knew where she was. Even if the Native was capable of killing anyone that crossed her path, she still had her limits. It all depended on how many were sent after her, but if the marshal managed to escape then all the better. At least then she and Andrea could live to see another day.

"So tell me, what's the deal with the biters? You two ladies got lonely one day and decided to get yourselves some new boyfriends?"

His cohorts laughed like the sheep they were.

"Careful thought, they bite." He glanced perceptively at their jawless state. "But I think you already knew that."

Michonne kept her mouth shut as he guffawed, only her nostrils flaring in anger.

"Nothin'? Not even a peep?" The man caught Michonne's chin in a vice grip, but she didn't make a peep at the ache. "And here I thought you women love nothin' more than to yap all day. Don't matter none about what."

Hum.

Michonne frowned.

There was a strange sound coming from outside. It was low, barely noticeable through the man's exasperating dribble, but as Michonne strained her scattered brain to focus, it cleared until it resembled a roar.

 _What the—_

For a moment, the dark woman thought that the hit to her skull made her hear things, but the minute the man paused in his verbal diarrhea was when she realized that it wasn't a concussion speaking, but reality.

Something was coming towards them.

The inhabitants of the shop looked apprehensively towards the boarded windows and Michonne swore she could hear a pin drop in the silence of the room. Her heart beat faster and faster and almost did a full stop when it dawned on her what the roar reminded her of.

—A car pushing the motor to its limits.

And said car was heading straight towards them.

Michonne did the only thing her instincts told her to—she threw herself to the wall and flattened against it.

Boom!

The front of the shop burst open, wood and glass exploding everywhere. The men screamed bloody murder as some were hit by the car and thrown backwards and some buried underneath it.

Michonne sputtered and coughed as dirt coated her throat. She was buried underneath the remains of a wooden shelf along with planks from the front wall of the store. Her whole body felt sore as her bones rattled with every move. The woman could hear the men's pain-filled cries not too far from her.

The car engine still roared even as the hood and bumper were almost unrecognizable. Michonne heard the door open.

"Michonne, get to cover!"

 _Of course…_

The dark woman wasted no time as she knew Samara was about to unleash another wave of crazy. Making herself as small as possible, Michonne cursed as the sound of guns cocking resounded.

Snap and recoil. Bullets flew.

Her ears popped as the loud bangs of Samara's guns deafened the destroyed shop. Michonne desperately wanted to cover her ears and give some respite to her sensitive brain, but her hands were, literally, tied.

Some of the injured men had gotten up before Samara pulled the trigger, but they didn't get the time to even pull their guns out as the shop was razed with a shower of bullets. Screams and groans and curses followed as man by man were punctured by the oncoming onslaught. Blood splattered over the destroyed furniture and walls, and one of the bullets flew past Michonne's hip, penetrating the ground.

 _Shit!_ Michonne gritted her teeth tightly, hoping that Samara's clips will empty soon. She didn't want her cause of death to be by friendly fire.

Heavy boots ran past her. The sword-wielder peeked underneath her lashes to see the metal-hand guy running into the meat locker, shooting wildly behind him.

 _He's heading for the garage door! He's escaping!_

Click. Click. Click. Samara's guns resounded.

Hurried footsteps approached her and the debris was soon pushed away.

"Michonne!"

The woman in question blinked rapidly as the light of a beautiful winter day hit her eyes. Groaning, she felt Samara drag her out of the wooden pile and cut the plastic cuffs in two.

"You alright?" The marshal looked at the blood on her face anxiously.

"Yeah, just a few scratches." Massaging her raw wrists, Michonne picked herself up on wobbly feet.

 _Christ…_

Only now did the sword-wielder realize the utter destruction the other woman had caused. The shop was barely even recognizable anymore and as she predicted, the men were dead along with Terry and Mike. Some of the living were in an even worse state than the jawless walkers, making the dark woman grimace in disgust.

"The asshole with the hand…He escaped."

"I saw." Samara growled as she looked down to her left arm from where blood seeped out of a bullet graze. "Fuck him. We're not sticking around here any longer for him to find us again."

Groan.

A walker shuffled slowly by the car. Reloading one of her guns, Samara shot it in the head. The sound caused a chain reaction—several guttural groans resounded and the women's skin prickled with dread. Running over to the front of the store they witnessed the scene they had feared from day one camping in this town.

Every walker in town was heading straight towards them.

"Get Andrea and let's get the fuck out of here!"

Not needing to be told twice, Michonne picked up her katana from one of the men's clutches and ran back to the meat freezer. With her heart in her throat, Michonne opened the heavy door and found Andrea in the exact same position as she left her. Picking up the IV bag, Michonne slid the emergency backpack over her shoulders and picked Andrea up bridal style. Straining with the effort, she left the freezer and came upon the gun bags.

 _What now?_

The blonde and marshal needed them and there had been times where so much firepower had saved their skin, but they were too heavy and she had no more free hands left.

"Michonne! Hurry up!"

 _Fuck it._

Leaving the bags behind, Michonne ran to the front and saw Samara dangerously close to being overwhelmed as even the extra guns from the men wasn't enough to stop the onslaught.

Breathing heavily, Michonne got to the backseat door as Samara provided cover. Arranging Andrea as best as she could over the seats, the sword-wielder left the IV bag in the woman's lap and threw the backpack at the footrest before climbing the front passenger side.

Samara ran to the driver's side as the numbers of walkers overwhelmed her remaining bullets. A walker extended its clawed hands, blocking her way to the door and Samara kicked it in its stomach, spreading the bastard all over the snowy asphalt. With no further interruption, Samara hoped inside and immediately started the car.

—The engine rumbled and died.

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me…" Wide-eyed, Samara turned the key once again and the engine kept sputtering. "Start! Start!"

"Samara…" Michonne hissed as a walker banged on the backseat window. "Start the damn car."

"What do you think I'm trying to do?!" Cold sweat poured down her forehead as she kept turning the key. "Come on…Come on…Don't do this."

The car started rocking as more and more walkers started banging against the vehicle. They really wanted to get in and Michonne didn't know from where they gathered the energy for it. Not an hour ago they didn't even blink when you passed them by and now, they scratched and clawed at anything to reach fresh meat just like the ravenous cannibals they were.

"Dammit!" Samara hit the steering wheel in anger. "Start!"

And it did. The engine came alive instead of dying, steadily rumbling.

Both women looked at each other perplexed, but the sudden crack in the car door window had them back with their feet on the ground. The walkers had started throwing themselves at the car in a frenzy and one managed to fissure the backseat window.

Throwing the car in high gear, Samara backed out of the destroyed shop, crushing debris and human remains as she went. The car jumped up and down as they ran over walkers in their haste and once they were a distance away, Samara pressed the peddle until she thought she would break it, sending the car into the stratosphere.

Second by second they put as much distance between themselves and the walkers, but as further as they went the problems began. As the roads had been left unattended, ice spread all over the asphalt making it slippery and the Jeep had no winter tires to withstand them.

"Fuck!"

Samara cursed as the Jeep swerved dangerously and she turned the steering wheel from left to right, doing everything to keep the car from veering off the road and into a tree. Michonne held tightly onto her seat as she was thrown around the passenger side, hitting her body against everything. Looking back, there was nothing she could do about Andrea who was rocked off the seat into the footrests, leaving her in an awkward position over the backpack. A pained groan was the blonde's response.

"Stop the car, Samara!"

Hitting the brakes, Michonne and Samara almost flew through the windshield from the force of their stop. Even holding onto the steering wheel and dashboard didn't help them from sustaining some injuries as Samara's nose collided with the wheel and Michonne's head with the side window.

The car skirted in every direction, turning like a spinning top before stopping altogether.

Michonne breathed heavily as she unclenched her fingers from the dash. Samara wasn't in any different shape as she held onto the steering wheel with white knuckles, bleed trickling down her nose. Except for their harsh breaths and their pumped up hearts, nothing else could be heard in the car.

"Holy shit…"

Michonne agreed wholeheartedly as she and Samara basked in the awed aftermath. Both women were bruised and cut with injuries appearing with each minute they moved forward, but the only important thing was that they were alive.

Averting her attention to the blonde in the back, Michonne found her still at the footrest. Whatever moment of consciousness Andrea had was gone as she once again lay dormant. The sword-wielder gathered her strength to relocate in the backseat and arrange her friend into a more comfortable position when cold fingers wrapped tightly around her bicep. With a questioning frown directed at the marshal, Michonne blanched at the wide-eyed, slack-jawed face the Native made.

Following her line of sight to the side window, Michonne understood the reason for the marshal's trepidation.

There was a car speeding towards them with no intention of stopping.

It was _him_.

"Go!" Michonne demanded, forgetting about Andrea.

Again, Samara hit the gears into high-speed making the tires screech horrendously. The damaged vehicle darted forward, still wobbly on the patches of ice.

"Can't this car go any faster?"

"Considering that I wrecked most of the front and some of the engine parts…No."

The sword-wielder glared as she observed the other car's progress. It was getting closer.

"Hold on!" Michonne shouted just as their Jeep was pushed from behind.

Samara cursed as the bastard kept trying to ram them off the road. She could barely control the car with the added pressure, not to mention that she had to be careful with random ice patches. Throw that combination in and Samara felt her stomach collapsing out of her ass every time she hit one.

There was no way they could outrun him. Their car was close to being entirely totaled and if the metal-hand bastard kept pushing, then they could say goodbye to their lives. Samara knew too well that at this point he had no other thought than their slow, painful deaths.

"Michonne." Samara gritted her teeth as she again avoided the man's front bumper. "Get my guns and shoot the bastard until he's dead."

Upholstering all four guns that the marshal had on her, Michonne counted the clips left. Four and a half.

Loading the handguns, the dark woman pushed the button to open the roof window and stuck her upper body through it.

Bang!

The first bullet hit the pavement.

Clenching her teeth against the bitter wind, Michonne focused and pulled the trigger. Realizing what the woman was doing, the metal hand guy swerved his car left and right to avoid the bullet's trajectories. A cat and mouse chase ensued as the hick gave them no leeway in his pursuit and Michonne shot parts of his car not important enough to stop.

The sword-wielder felt a tug on her jacket. Wriggling back inside the car, she saw the iron expression on the marshal's face.

"Put your seatbelt on."

Michonne knew that look. It was the 'I'm-about-to-do-something-you-will-hate' look.

"Samara…"

"I'm going to stop this fucker even if I have to wreck this car."

"What about Andrea?"

"She's safe where she is."

With a curse, Michonne clicked the seatbelt on and held onto anything in range. Samara kept glancing in the rearview mirror, waiting like a panther for the right moment to strike.

Michonne could hear the car behind them getting closer with added speed.

A foot separated them.

Stomp!

The Jeep's tires wailed like banshee's in the night as Samara slammed the brake as hard as she could. The man, having no notion of Samara's action, had no time to brake and so, rammed headfirst in the women's Jeep.

Michonne felt herself lifted from her seat as she was thrown around mercilessly in the car. The window shield behind them shattered, spraying glass everywhere and the trunk of the car was sunken in moving the back seat a little to the front, effectively squishing Andrea in between.

Once Samara recuperated from her daze, she switched the gears to backpedal into the car behind.

"Now! Shoot him now!"

Michonne wasted no time as she ripped the belt from her body and climbed out through the roof window. The car behind began to reverse drive to get away from the onslaught, but its motor sputtering in defect. The sword-wielder pulled the trigger as many times as she could, hitting the hood, the exposed engine, the window shield but the car kept going even as light smoke escaped the engine, changing direction to avoid the larger Jeep.

Beyond enraged, Michonne changed direction to the tires. The moment the car swerved right was when they got their lucky break—the bullet punctured the front tire.

The car swerved out of control as the driver tried to regain the steering wheel, but it was in vain. The car veered in every direction until it hit an ice patch and from there the car toppled over, spinning a few times on the pavement.

"Holy fuck!"

Michonne heard the marshal shout in incredulity as she herself was left in wonder at the sight before her. These sorts of things you only saw in movies, never in real life.

The car rolled, wrecking the roof, the doors, everything that hit the pavement until it finally stopped upside-down.

Samara slowed the car down until it fully stopped.

Michonne got back into her seat, her eyes just as wide as the marshal's.

The women shared a glance before gazing back at the totaled car in the middle of the road. They couldn't believe that they just escaped the mad man. Escaped a dire situation that hadn't been in their favor from the start.

"Should we check it?"

"No…" Michonne narrowed her eyes as she wiped the sweat off her brow. "If he's still alive, he'll have little to no chances of getting back to his people alive and if he's dead…let him roam the world as one of them."

"How cruel." Samara smirked with blood painting her lips ruby red. She had no sympathy for the man and ruthless suffering seemed to be the only answer.

"Let's put as much distance as we can." Michonne said as she twisted into the backseat of the car to finally help Andrea.

The marshal nodded as she moved the car forward.

* * *

Samara kept looking in the rearview mirror. She knew there was no one chasing them anymore, but it still didn't elevate her caution as she sent the car into high gear. After the ordeal they had just been through, she had every right to be jumpy.

The marshal didn't know how long she drove, but she knew she had put a good enough distance between them and the town.

Neither of the two women had spoken as they remained in a nervous state, each too charged with energy to utter a word. The cut on Michonne's forehead had stopped bleeding, leaving a fine crust spread down to her chin. Even though Samara's bullet wound had thankfully stopped bleeding, her nose was an entirely different problem. It had fractured during the high-speed ice patch escape.

They were exhausted, high-strung and cranky. A dangerous combination.

"Stop the car."

Braking in the middle of the road, the sword-wielder got out and Samara soon followed, the confines of the car becoming too stifling.

The Native began an unrelenting pace, mumbling under her breath harshly. Michonne sat on the rail at the side of the road, calm and silent as a tomb, but her eyes betrayed her. She was beyond angry as she stared out at the monotonous scenery. Bleak, just like the situation they were facing right now. Everything had gone to shit so fast they didn't even have time to think. And now, they were stuck with only a damaged car and little supplies.

Samara stopped pacing, opting to nurse her poor nose. She urgently needed to reposition it, but her strength left her as even the gentlest of prods hurt like hell.

"Hey…" Samara called out nasally. "Do you have a cigarette?"

Michonne glanced at her with those bottomless pits before she went back to staring angrily at the snow beneath her.

Samara knew the question was a futile one, but she had tried out of old habit. Sighing despondently, she crouched low to the ground with her head in her hands. She felt like giving up. This day had been their worst so far. Chased out of their home, beaten and bruised till their skin turned blue and blood leaked out of their pores, and left with no supplies that they had painstakingly gathered throughout the weeks.

–It was amazing how everything could turn 180 degrees in the matter of a moment.

"We should have left days ago…"

Those bottomless coffee orbs took on a precarious gleam. "Are you blaming me, Samara?"

"Yea—No…No, I'm not." Samara grimaced as she covered her eyes, feeling slight shame. It wasn't like Michonne had wanted this to happen. "I'm just angry."

"You think I'm not? We just lost everything. The food, the medicine Andrea still needs. We just have the IV bag left and it's almost empty."

"Not to mention the clothes, the guns." Samara mumbled hopelessly. "Everything that we needed for winter is gone. How the fuck are we going to survive now?"

Michonne shook her head. She didn't know. The supplies in the emergency backpack were enough for only one person and they were the military food packets. Disgusting as they were, they kept you fed, but broken down into three they would last maybe four days and that is if they're rationed to the extreme.

"How did they find us?" Michonne finally asked as this thought had been bugging her since she laid eyes on them.

"That bastard with the metal hand. I had an inkling he was a hunter and now I'm a hundred percent sure." Samara spat, cursing the man to hell and back. "He must have followed us back then."

"We covered our tracks." She knew Samara had been very thorough upon their trek back to town and besides, there had been a snowstorm just yesterday. No matter how talented you were, it would have been impossible for anyone to find them.

The marshal shook her head as even she couldn't understand it.

"Where to now?"

The women lapsed back into silence as they thought on their next move. They couldn't remain here, they had to keep going. To survive.

Then it hit Samara. The one place they had a chance to get through winter—

"The farm."

Michonne furrowed her brow as she tried to remember what farm they had passed by in their travels and then realized which one the marshal was talking about.

"The one you ran from filled with walkers?"

"That was months ago. It's most likely empty by now." Samara waved her skepticism off. "Think about it—there's water there, clothes, beds. They even have stoves so we won't have to worry about burning the place down. If there are stragglers nearby, we'll take care of them and leave them outside the house so they can cover our scent."

Michonne's brows furrowed deeper. It wasn't a bad idea. The area was secluded and spacious enough from Andrea's stories. It was the walkers that had her worried. If the hoard had stagnated there then it was a waste of time.

Also—

"She won't like it."

By she, she meant their blond companion.

"Andrea doesn't have a say in this." For now, Andrea was their patient and she wasn't even conscious for the majority of the time. "Besides, you think I like this? I'd rather not go back there again, but these are tough times. What I want is insignificant. What _we_ need is what's important."

Michonne paused in thought, before nodding silently. Samara was right. Even if Andrea will spit and curse them, if the farm was safe enough then there was no backtalk to be heard. After all, what counted more—their preferences or their survival to see the light of day again?

"Fine, but once spring starts we leave Georgia."

Samara appraised her intensely. "You still want to go?"

Michonne stood up with Samara following suit. The two women looked at each other seriously. The three of them have had this discussion before, but at first it had been a passing thought. As the weeks progressed, it became more of an option before finally turning into a plan.

"I told you about my parent's cabin in Lake Santeetlah. It's big enough for three people and it's secluded. We'll gather as many supplies along the way and the lake is just a few feet from the cabin. The electricity is even solar powered." A ghost of a smile crossed Michonne's lips. "We have everything we need there."

To leave the state…It wasn't a thought Samara was opposed to.

Samara nodded resolutely.

"Once the flowers bloom, we get the fuck out of Georgia."

* * *

 _ **Foot Note:**_ What did you think of the action scenes? Good enough or over the top?

While I was writing I was listening to Inception's Mombasa and it got my blood pumping. It's a good track if you want to listen while reading this chapter.


	3. Roadkill

_**Author's Note:**_ So, the gals are going back to the farm. It will be interesting to see what happens there. Will they find safe haven there or certain death?

* * *

Michonne narrowed her eyes as she concentrated on the map.

She was the one currently on navigation duty as Samara had refused to give her the wheel. Fine with her as she got to have a bit of rest. After the last two days, Michonne had barely had any sleep. Her entire waking moments had been focused on making sure Andrea didn't croak during her treatment.

Looking into the rearview mirror, Andrea was still asleep in the backseat, only now she lay comfortably instead of akimbo. Samara's stunts, while life saving, had given the blond a few ugly bruises. Andrea had fluctuated between half-consciousness and oblivion, barely aware of where she was, but it was a good sing. It meant she was close to waking up.

As they sped along, Michonne noticed a dirt road with a sign indicating towards it.

 **Woodbury**

 **10km**

Michonne narrowed her eyes as the name's familiar.

 _Ah…_

After the town supplies had ran out, they had brought out their tattered map and marked the towns near their area they could pillage. Woodbury was the furthest away and one they never got the chance to ransack.

"You remember Woodbury?"

"Huh?" Samara came out of the dazed spell the stretch of grey road captured her in.

"It was one of the towns we were supposed to check out."

"Vaguely." She had no idea what Michonne was talking about as she yawned loudly. "What about it?"

"It's 10km west of here." Michonne gave her a knowing look. "What do you think?"

Samara cringed as the prospect of entering a town now. "Is it big?"

"Not much bigger than the ones we scouted before."

Samara bit her lip, before she shook her head adamantly. "I think we should avoid any towns near our old camp."

Michonne knew where the marshal's mind wandered and she agreed with her, but unfortunately— "We can't survive on that dried up soldier food, Samara. Sooner or later, we will have to go scavenging again."

"Michonne…" Samara scowled as she clenched the steering wheel harder. "We barely escaped those men and that's only because we had a shitload of luck on our side. I really don't want to push it. You saw how many there were and we both _know_ there are more than just the ones we've killed. From their numbers, they might as well be living in one of those towns we marked down and I really wouldn't be surprised if they did." She then turned to the sword-wielder, her expression iron clad. "So no, I don't want to go scavenging. I'm still recuperating from the fucking shock I received not two hours ago and if you even think about going, I will knock you flat on your ass."

"Just an idea, don't get your panties in a twist."

Samara huffed the anger out as she averted her eyes back to the road. "Jokes on you, I'm not wearing any."

She said it with such a straight face that Michonne couldn't hold her amusement. "Now there's an idea to kill walkers, just flash 'em and they'll drop dead."

Samara glared at the lightly smirking Michonne.

"Whazzat about flashin' walkers?"

Both women's hearts skipped a beat as their ears were delighted to a voice they hadn't heard in over a week.

Andrea sat up in her seat, her arms shaking with the strain. Her straw blond hair was in disarray and her voice croaked like a frog's. The color had finally started to return to her cheeks, making her look more human than her past ghostly visage.

"Rise and shine, princess." Samara smiled as a slither of happiness crawled into her numb heart.

Michonne turned into her seat to see the blond better. "How are you feeling?"

Andrea scrunched her nose as she touched her temple gently. "Got a headache the size of an elephant and my body feels like it got ran over by a truck."

A quick glance was sent Samara's way, knowing that whatever bruises Andrea had been because of her wild actions. The marshal conveniently looked oblivious to Michonne's hairy eyeball.

"Also, I'm hungry." Andrea said after she inspected the macabre IV in her arm.

"Here."

Andres scrunched her nose in distaste at the army food packet. "Please tell me we're not down to these."

"For the time being."

"I'd rather eat rotten food. At least it got some taste." Andrea took a bite and grimaced at the sandy texture. "Damn, it's nasty."

Michonne handed her a bottled water to wet her parched throat. With greedy gulps, the blond chugged down on it until Michonne took it away. They had to ration after all.

"So, why do you wanna flash walkers?" The blonde asked the two women in bewilderment. She hadn't heard their conversation only the last bit and she was rightly confused. They had a strange topic of discussion.

"Michonne thinks the sight of my wild vagina will kill walkers."

A blink.

Andrea remained straight faced as she dryly swallowed the harsh piece of food. She sighed heavily once the tasteless meal reached her stomach and shook her head.

"…I don't even wanna know."

Samara chuckled merrily and even Michonne cracked a smile.

Andrea looked around herself, her fuzzy mind finally realizing what was amiss. She was in a car and its backseat was ripped in many places and it seemed that she was much too close to the front seats than usual. Peeking over her shoulder, the blond was surprised to see the damage the back end of the car was in. There was no window for one, and she could see the interior of the trunk with the hatch barely hanging onto the car. The windows on either side of her were cracked and in danger of falling off at a single touch.

"Why are we in a car and what the hell happened to it?" She then took a closer look at her companions. Cuts and bruises and dried blood covered their faces. "What the fuck happened to you?"

"Long story."

Andrea looked to Michonne for an explanation.

"We had to run."

The sword-wielder began recounting the _exciting_ tale of their sudden departure. Andrea listened with a horrified expression, her jaw slacking every now and then in awe.

"Goddamn…" Andrea sat back against the ruined seat, her head heavy from the abuse of information. She couldn't believe that that just happened merely half an hour ago. "I was asleep durin' all that?"

"Like a log." Samara slowed the car down as they reached a stretch of road untouched by cars and so, was full with ankle deep snow.

"I can't believe this." The blond felt weak once again as the news hit her right in the gut. "We left everythin' behind?"

"It was either our lives or the bags."

"Shit..." Covering her face with her palms, Andrea leaned over herself in dismay. Both front seat passengers could relate to her plight. They also had been through that same dread not too long ago and some of those feelings still lingered.

Taking a deep breath, the blond pressed her lips into a thin line as she let the news wash over her. What happened, happened, and there was nothing they could do about it. Now, they had to look forward.

"Where to now?" The two women must have a direction in mind. They weren't foolish enough to just drive around the state, hoping something came up in their quest.

Samara hesitated as she looked to Michonne for support. The woman just gave her an unreadable wall—Samara had steered them towards the farm so she was the one that had to break the news.

The marshal grimaced as she looked in the rearview mirror at Andrea's expectant face.

"We're going back to the farm."

The ball dropped.

Andrea's face went through several emotions—surprise, horrified shock, betrayal and ultimately, furious anger.

"What?!" Andrea gripped the back of the front seat as she snarled at the marshal. "No! Hell no! Are you insane?!"

"Calm down." Michonne gently pushed her back. She wasn't ready to strain herself just yet. "This is just temporary."

"Don't tell me to—!"

The blond's words died in her throat as a harsh coughing fit took over. Bended over herself, her hands shook from the pressure applied on her lungs.

Michonne gritted her teeth as she felt powerless when faced with Andrea's pneumonia. There was only so much she and the marshal could do and stopping the coughs wasn't it.

"Lay back down." Michonne helped Andrea settle back down on the backseat. Taking off her winter coat, the sword-wielder threw it over Andrea's trembling body. Michonne felt her stomach clench once blood coated the blonde's lips. "Your body needs rest. Get some sleep and we'll talk about this later."

"Talk when?" She coughed a few more times as tears slipped from underneath her lashes. "When I wake up in my old room in the house?"

"You really want to go back there?" Her eyes connected with Samara's through the rearview mirror. "After everything that's happened?"

"We have nowhere else to go, Andrea. It's either the farm or the car." Her voice softened, dreading the moment she saw the Greene's family land once again. "Believe me, that's the last place I want to go back to."

Andrea let her head fall back on the seat, feeling defeated. She wasn't in the habit of opening old skeleton closets and Samara literally just pushed her into one. She really didn't want to go. It would open all sorts of barely patched wounds and she didn't feel like wallowing into them, but she knew she was outnumbered two to one and she was too unhealthy to fight back. For now, she would have to follow the other women's lead, but once she got on her own two feet, they'll be hell to pay.

Andrea hoped to God that it will be worth reliving that nightmare once again.

* * *

Two hours had passed and the three women still hadn't arrived at the farm.

The road had been precarious. They had to cross huge ice patches at the pace of a snail and push several cars out of the way to allow the large Jeep to pass by. Despite the bright sun, the air was cold enough that their nostrils stuck together.

Judging by Samara's calculations they had another twenty minutes before they reached the farm and Michonne was just happy that they were leaving the road although she wasn't a hundred percent sure the farm was a good choice.

Looking out the window, Michonne's mind flew as the repetitive scenery sent her into a state of trance, oblivious to the world around her. Andrea was still in the backseat, sleeping, while Samara was driving.

Samara yawned.

She was exhausted. The little sleep she got these past few weeks coupled with the actions and beat down not too long ago had her barely standing on her feet.

Her head dropped for a second, before instantly waking up.

Blinking hard, Samara shook her head to dispel the drowsiness, but it just kept coming back with a vengeance. The long stretch of road and the bleakly colored panorama made her eyes droop until they finally shut. Samara's head lolled with the motions of the car as the wheel gently slipped from her lax fingers.

Michonne frowned as she felt the car sway slowly. Blinking away the haze, she confirmed her suspicion as the car moved awfully close to the side of the road. Looking to her left, the sword-wielder's eyes almost popped out of her skull.

—Samara was dead asleep at the fucking wheel!

Just as Michonne was ready to take hold of the wheel, the unthinkable happened.

Someone ran out of the woods right into the middle of the road.

"Watch out!"

The yell instantly woke Andrea and Samara up and the latter stepped instinctively on the brakes. The car's wheels screeched, but it was too late. The man grunted and yelled in pain as the wrecked car hit him full frontal, cracking the windshield in the process. Rolling over the hood and the roof, he fell to the pavement with a sickening squelch.

The car came to a halt.

Michonne let the breath she had been holding out with a rasp. Did they really just run someone over? In the middle of nowhere?!

"What the hell…" Andrea wondered unsteadily, uncomprehending of what just happened.

Samara wasn't as confused as the sleep haze was now a speck at the back of her mind.

"Goddammit! That's the second time I hit someone in a year."

Michonne and Andrea looked at Samara strangely making awkwardness swell inside the car.

"Unintentionally…" She defended herself. She hadn't meant to hit that guy towards Charleston.

Andrea looked through the missing rear window. The man was a dark mass on the white ground with a growing red pool underneath his still body.

"Is he dead?" Michonne asked as she tried to see past Andrea.

"If he isn't, he's going to wish he was." A hit that hard most likely broke some bones.

Twack.

Samara held the back of her head as she stared wide-eyed at the sword-wielder.

"The fuck was that for?!"

"You reckless idiot! You fell asleep at the wheel!"

The astonishment quickly evaporated in favor of anger. "Well, excuse me for being tired."

"That's no reason. We're all exhausted." The sword-wielder swore she was seconds away from starting a fist-fight with the marshal. "Why didn't you let me drive if you can't keep yourself awake?"

"I thought I could handle it!"

"Clearly, you can't."

"Oh, I'm sorry. Are you in any better state than I am?" Samara snorted scathingly. "If you had been in my shoes you would've also fallen asleep. So, why don't you get off my a—"

"Will you two stop?" Andrea finally intervened as she had enough. "Damn, I swear you two are gettin' worse with each day. Always bickerin' about petty things. You're worse than an old married couple."

Samara grimaced as she looked away while Michonne sighed exasperatedly. They've been around each other for so long that it was starting to affect them and not in a good way. Living cramped in one room with barely any personal space could do that to anyone. Not to mention the added pressure of their sick companion had driven them to the brink of physical violence, something they haven't delved into since the first weeks of their meeting.

"Instead of stayin' here and arguin', how about we see to the guy we just ran over?"

Andrea left the car without waiting for their answer. Michonne cursed and immediately followed the blond. The woman could barely stand, she shouldn't be marching off to tend to whatever they happened to kill, be it monster or human.

Samara soon followed as all three women braved the cold.

Not even two steps from the car, Andrea collapsed in the snow. The sword-wielder quickly reached her and slung her arm over her shoulder, supporting most of her weight as she straightened her out.

"Damn, I'm already tired…" Andrea breathed heavily as she could feel beads of sweat pool on her skin.

"Stay in the car and we'll check him."

"Just help me get to him." Andrea frowned, undeterred from her goal.

Michonne gritted her teeth, suppressing the urge to just haul the woman back in the car and be gone already. With small steps the two women walked towards their roadkill.

Samara remained a distance away, her eyes roving over the part of the forest the man came out of. Something must have scared him deeply for him to run in the middle of the street without even being careful. Either that or it was something else and Samara wasn't sure which was worse.

 _Is this some sort of ambush?_

Her suspicion stirring up again, the marshal upholstered her gun, ready to use it at the first sign of animosity. After everything that's happened, Samara was at a 'shoot first, ask questions never' stage.

Approaching the body, Michonne inspected him with detached eyes. The man was a bloodied mess, lying on the street on his stomach. She could see that the man's leg was broken since the bone protruded through the skin while his other was contorted awkwardly.

He didn't seem to be alive.

"Don't get so close." Michonne stopped the blond from getting any closer as she unsheathed her katana and prodded the still body.

"Relax, Mich. He's not dead yet." She pointed at the slight movement of his torso, indication of breath. "No chance of him bitin' my head off yet."

Andrea crouched low with her help. Before the blond could try exerting herself further, Michonne took it on herself to roll the body onto its back.

"Goddamn…" Andrea grimaced as she looked at the black man. His front seemed to have taken the full brunt of the hit. The blond turned to the pacing marshal with a brow raised. "You did one hell of a number on him."

Hearing this, Samara eyed the broken man and shrugged. "It wasn't like I did it on purpose. He jumped right in front of the car." Her attention then returned to the forest line, no guilt present in her words. "We should just kill him so we can leave.

"We can't just kill him, Samara." Andrea looked at the marshal crossly. The marshal might be able to, but the blond didn't have the heart to just end someone after they just accidentally ran him over.

"Think of it as putting him out of his misery. It's not like he's just going to get up and miraculously walk again."

As Andrea dismissed the woman's ever callous attitude, Michonne watched the tension in her movements and knew the Native was in a hyper-vigilant state. Moving towards her, the sword-wielder observed with scrutiny the dark areas between the trees.

"See anything?"

Samara shook her head slowly. "Something's not right here. That guy wasn't just running for the sake of it or possibly because he heard our car. He was running from something."

"Or someone."

As the two women conversed, Andrea remained by the man's side. As her pale eyes scanned him from head to toe something caught her attention—there was an object held tightly in the man's hand. With a cough and shaky fingers, she attempted to pry his hand apart, to see what this mysterious object was.

Jolting his body must have been the one thing that awakened his dormant consciousness because once he opened his eyes and the first thing he saw was a stranger leaning over his body, he acted in a panic.

—He slashed Andrea across the cheek with the now revealed switchblade.

"Jesus!"

Both women turned startled as Andrea threw herself away from the man, cradling her bloodied cheek. Michonne was the first to act as she ran towards the hysteric man and kicked him in the face. Again and again, the sword-wielder assaulted the pleading and screaming man without mercy.

Samara hurried towards Andrea and gently pried her fingers to see the gravity of her wound. The marshal grimaced as the cut spread from the left corner of her lips to her ear and seeped blood continuously.

"It's deep. You'll need stitches."

With angry eyes and a snarl on her face, Andrea looked wide-eyed at the marshal.

"Gimme your blade!"

Samara paused as she gazed into the woman's eyes. There was nothing but iron resolve in there mixed with righteous fury. Unsheathing her blade, she presented it to the blond without a second thought. The marshal understood Andrea's fury and agreed with what her anger-fueled mind was about to do.

The blond rose to her feet with Samara's help and wobbled over to her offender, tears of pain and anger rolling down her face.

As Michonne was ready to deliver another kick to the man's stomach she was pushed away. The shock on her face was visible as she watched her blond companion raise the machete over her head and drop it without mercy into the man's skull.

Silence.

A light wind disturbed the blanket of snow, making their winter coats rustle.

Michonne was stunned. Of the three of them, Andrea was the most humane and least likely to kill anyone living, whatever their actions may have been—for her to do such a violent act was out of character and… _sad_. She felt like the blonde just took a step closer to the two already tainted women. Something she had tried to avoid ever since meeting her.

"Son of a bitch." Andrea spat on the man's corpse, hate still visible on her face. "Should've done this from the beginnin'."

Michonne got out of her stupor once she saw Andrea waiver and almost fall to her knees if it weren't for the marshal catching her. With hurried steps, she took in the paleness of her skin and the slight daze in her eyes. "Are you alright?"

"No." Andrea coughed as she felt her body get increasingly warm. "No, I'm definitely not alright."

"Come on. I'm taking you back to the car."

"There's a small first aid kit in the back of the trunk." Samara said as she passed Andrea over to Michonne before looking at the barely recognizable back end of the car. "…If it's still there."

As the two women left for the car, Samara remained with the dead man. He sported a long dark winter coat covering most of his body and dark blue pants with winter boots on. Samara gave no importance to this as she crouched low and patted the man down for anything useful he might be carrying. The marshal opened the man's coat and froze with the material in her hands.

"I'll be damned…This son of a bitch was an inmate."

Looking behind, she saw Michonne trying to open the destroyed trunk of the car and whistled sharply, catching her attention.

"What is it?" Michonne furrowed her brows as she approached the Native.

"Look. Blue uniform with a name and number tag—A. Bartholomew, Nr. 481516." Samara looked at the dark woman with an amused smirk and the next words came out in a southern accent. "Looky here, cowgirl. We got ourselves a runaway."

The flat look Michonne gave her could crack the pavement.

Samara chuckled, finding her dark humor hilarious even if her companion didn't.

Michonne ignored the Native's grossly displaced wit in favor of her surroundings. There was dread growing at the base of her stomach and it was all because of the mystery surrounding the dead man.

"I didn't see any prisons on the map."

"Detention facilities don't usually show up on paper maps." Samara rose to her feet, finding nothing of value on his corpse but the switchblade. "System didn't want civilians rolling by or worse, tourists trying to get pictures of it."

"If he was a prisoner then why is he still wearing the outfit after all these months?"

"Now that I do not know." Samara was also confused. By the label on the coat, it was an expensive one, one not found anywhere near a prison. Also, prison uniforms weren't that warm to start with so why only a winter coat and nothing extra? Did he escape when the virus broke and survived the winter only with meager clothes or…

—Maybe he just recently left the prison and that's why he was running.

Considering that there are only two things now that could get you running like the Devil's on your heels, Samara definitely didn't want to know where that prison was.

"I think we should go." Michonne broke the tense silence as the two were absorbed into their own thoughts on what happened. "If by any chance he came running from a prison, it's clear the place is a no go. Either crawling with walkers or people."

It then hit Samara.

"Maybe _he_ came from there."

The sword-wielder's brow furrowed as the unreadable gaze was back in place. "Let's just get to the farm. I've had enough of people trying to kill us to last me a year."

"Couldn't agree more."

* * *

There was a heavy tension in the air.

With each second, the farm got closer and closer. They drove on the Greene's dirt road, passing the rusted mailbox and destroyed front gate courtesy of Dixon.

Samara's fingers clenched tightly on her knees, her heart ready to leap out of her throat. By the Gods, she didn't want to be here. She didn't want to see the farm again.

—She didn't want the nightmares to come back.

There was a viscous silence between the three women. Two of them have gone through hell here and the other was simply assessing the place for safety reasons. She knew the history her two companions had and kept her words to herself lest she trigger a negative reaction.

Samara's breath hitched. The trees were thinning and she could see the house in the distance.

Outside of the forest, they came upon the field and drove just close enough to the house. Michonne pulled the break and all three women left the car.

"Oh my God…" The shock and grief were all visible on Andrea's face as her eyes drank in the sight. "I don't even recognize it anymore."

Samara looked over the house with something akin to despondency. Where once life breathed through its halls, now there was nothing left but a withered husk surrounded by a sea of dead trees.

It was a depressing sight, Samara thought. The snow made it even worse as it gave it a haunted aspect. The marshal could see the dark clumps in the snow that were the walkers they had put down that night and there was a faint voice in her that whispered poison that they were not dead, but merely waiting.

Samara swallowed thickly. It had been a bad idea coming back here. What was here for them except bad memories?

Looking over the fields, her eyes landed on the charred remains of the barn. Half of it was down while the other was barely standing, the black wooden beans ready to collapse at the faintest of touches. The RV was still outside, but even with the snow covering it, Samara could still see the traces of old blood.

—Jimmy was in there.

 _And Patricia…_

She was somewhere near the house…if there was anything left of her after the walkers' feast.

 _Goddamn it._

Samara pulled the skull mask back over her face and with it the rounded sunglasses. She didn't want to be this vulnerable and this graveyard was breaking what was left of her heart.

"Samara, let's check the house." Michonne broke the silence as she unsheathed her katana. "Andrea, stay in the car and keep the engine running in case we have to leave. If something comes up, honk the horn."

Andrea nodded absent minded as she clutched her arms with desperation, bitter memories resurfacing with each moment spent here.

Even under Michonne's scrutinizing gaze, Samara said nothing. Climbing the front porch of the house they approached the door, blades ready. Samara made a signal for Michonne to stay behind as she opened the door. With a twist, the knob turned and the door opened. Samara jumped out of the way to let Michonne deal with any walker that might spring forth, but nothing came.

Michonne took lead as Samara formed the rear. They entered the hall and as they reached open space, Samara took the living room while Michonne the dining. Just before turning the corner, the Native felt her heart clench knowing what awaited her there or maybe didn't.

Her heart shrunk even further—

It was still there.

The necklace was still there, hanging by the knife handle and by the looks of it nothing seemed to have been touched from the time she left months ago to the moment she stepped foot in this house again just a few seconds ago.

—Samara felt like screaming.

Michonne joined Samara once she secured the dining room and eyed the multicolored sign on the wall with a frown. She threw a questioning glance at the marshal, but Samara simply took the necklace off and continued on her way. The sword-wielder could sense something was amiss, but now was not the time. They had to clear the house first.

Checking every square inch of the house, they found nothing but a walker stagnating by the basement door which was easily dispatched.

At the end of their search, they exit the house.

"It's clear." Michonne told Andrea once they reached the car. She took the backpack from the backseat and urged the blond to step outside. "Come on."

Samara helped Andrea walk to the house, but as they stood just outside the door, Andrea froze.

"It's alright. There's no blood or bodies. Only a dead walker."

Andrea's eyes were disdainful. "Are you alright with this?"

Samara's grip tightened as she forced Andrea to move forward, making the blond almost trip on the threshold. Andrea cursed underneath her breath as she entered the house and Samara guided her to the living room. Settling her on one of the dusty couches, Andrea groaned from the effort all of this taxed her weak muscles.

"Goddamn, it's freezin' in here." Andrea could see her breath as she kept coughing with little pauses in between to catch her breath.

"I'll get some logs from the shed. There must be some still left there."

Samara more than happily left the house. The smell of dust and stillness and whatever critters had made that house their home was making it hard to breath.

Inside the shed, she paused as the metal cuffs still hung from the upper beam.

 _Randall…The start of the farm's downfall._

If it hadn't been for him, maybe things would have ended differently, but then again the hoard's coming had been inevitable. It would have been upon them sooner or later and maybe it would've had a different outcome, a better one.

Taking the few logs from the shed, Samara slipped back into the house. Upon entering the living area she saw the top of Andrea's head peeking out from underneath a mountain of blankets with Michonne sitting near her to inspect the cut on her cheek.

Throwing the logs in the fireplace, Samara ripped a few pages from a book and doused them in cooking oil to kindle a spark. It took a few minutes and a parched throat from all the puffing for it to finally grow large enough, but it was worth it. Sitting down in front of the fire, Samara took off her coat and inspected the bullet wound.

"It wasn't as shallow as I thought."

The graze on her arm turned out to have taken a bit of meat off. Thankfully, it didn't feel like it had chipped the bone. Funny though, Samara hadn't felt it. The adrenaline mixed with painkillers in her system had most likely numbed the shock.

Perhaps this was why she fell asleep at the wheel. The bullet wound combined with her fractured nose had drained her of more blood than she had thought, making her lightheaded.

"The old man that owned this place was a veterinarian, right?"

Samara nodded.

"There must be some medical kit left around we could use." Michonne tried to remember seeing anything like that in the rooms she had checked. Andrea needed stitches and from the looks of it, so did Samara. The kit in the car was unreachable at the moment.

"No, I took everything when I left." Samara had also taken pretty much all the canned food along with the medicine. The fact that they had a roof over their head was great, but no food and no medicine was a major letdown.

Taking the news in stride, Michonne never broke composure. "Then it's sewing needle and twine for now."

"Whichever closes the wound, I don't really care."

"You know where they are?"

Samara's tipped her head towards the stairs. "Beth's room, I think. Second door on the right."

"Before I go…" Michonne approached the marshal carefully. "We need to straighten out your nose."

The Native abruptly broke into a defensive pose with her shoulders hunched over and her eyes sharply appraising the woman before her.

"Stop being a baby." Michonne chided her behavior as she stepped closer much to Samara's dread.

It wasn't that she was being childish, but it hurt!

Samara cringed at the sensation of Michonne's prodding and flat out broke into a cold sweat once she got a good grip of her fracture.

This was it.

"On three." Michonne licked her dry lips. "One."

 _Oh Gods. This is going to hurt so much._

"Two—"

Crack!

"Fuck!" Samara jumped out of her seat, cursing everything to hell and back. It was supposed to be three! She hadn't been prepared for it!

"You bitch…" She whimpered with tears streaming down her cheeks, leaving clear lines left in the blood.

Michonne shrugged as she left the room in search for the supplies. "Unexpected is the best way."

Samara fell back in her seat, gently cupping her throbbing nose as the waves short-circuited her brain. The tears dribbled down her face continuously and the sudden urge to crawl into a fetal position was becoming far too tempting. She was just on the brink of doing that when Andrea spoke.

"You write that?"

Despite the wet sheen over her eyes, Samara followed the blond's gaze to the writing on the wall. "A heads up in case they ever passed through here again. They haven't."

"How do you know?"

"Left this on the knife handle." Samara took the necklace out of her pocket, displaying it. "It was still here."

"I remember that…" Reminiscence seemed to spark as she observed the necklace thoughtfully. "You always wore it. Huh, I'm only realizin' now that it's been missin' all this time."

"I guess it's the little things we overlook." A small smile ghosted over the marshal's lips as her fingers petted over the grizzly fangs with odd affection. Her family's only heirloom.

"You wasted your time."

The good mood suddenly soured.

Andrea looked at the writing in indifference. Over the months, the blond had slowly and gradually gotten over her anger with the Atlanta group and in its stead, a strange blanket of apathy settled.

"Why would they come back?" Even with her voice distant, Samara could still hear the faint traces of melancholy. "They moved on…"

Samara said nothing as she continued nursing her nose. She just wished Michonne would hurry up with those stitches so she wouldn't have to think about their former group any longer. It was bad enough they were in this house, the marshal didn't wish to also verbalize her thoughts on the former inhabitants. She would rather just stew in them.

* * *

 _ **Foot Note:**_ So, the trio has established itself at the farm. Let's hope it will prove a better home than the last.

Reviews are always welcome.


	4. A Walk Down Memory Lane

_**Author's Note:**_ Thank you all for the favorites, follows and reviews! It means a lot to me!

Enjoy!

* * *

"Shit!"

Samara backed away from the generator, shaking her hand of the stinging sensation.

"It's broken, isn't it?"

Michonne stood at the entrance of the stable and watched for the better part of twenty minutes how Samara struggled with the generator. The marshal had no idea what she was doing, but she poked and prodded the damned thing until she cut her finger.

"I think it's just out of fuel."

The sword-wielder sighed, her arms crossing over her chest as her coffee eyes dug holes into the marshal's back. "You didn't count on this, did you?"

"Not exactly." The Native picked up her glove and pulled it back over her hand. "Back then we just had electricity and water. I knew it was from generators, but I didn't think they would one day stop working."

"What did you think they run on? Magic?"

Samara bristled, but bit her lip from spewing insults. Michonne was right after all.

"So, we have no hot water and no power, just cold water from the wells, heat from the fireplace and light from candles. It's better than nothing."

It wasn't good enough. Samara had wanted the farm to be in the same state it had been a few months ago. To realize that it was as dead on the inside as it looked on the outside was discouraging.

"I thought this place would be our one break." Disappointment coated her voice.

"It is. Just a bit different." Michonne gave the woman a comforting pat on the shoulder. "It's good that we came here, Samara. It's better than the meat locker. We can make do with what we have."

"Yeah…" Samara snorted cynically. "Sticks and stones."

Both women stepped out of the stable, nothing of worth left to inspect.

"We could gather whatever fuel we find when we go scavenging and use it to feed the generator."

The sword-wielder shook her head after thinking it over. "I don't think we need to waste gas on this. A car is much more valuable."

Reluctantly, Samara agreed. She might be wrong and the generator could be broken. Being left unattended for months on end could have busted it beyond function.

* * *

As they walked the property, Samara watched as Michonne prodded and stabbed every white lump for signs of unlife. After bandaging themselves, the two women had agreed to walk the grounds of the farm in search of any hibernating or catatonic walkers. Michonne had been rather adamant in making the house secure and so, here they were, ankle deep in snow, stabbing walkers.

It was a good idea on the sword-wielder's part, but it was tiresome especially since both women were exhausted from all the activity, not to mention the beating they took. The Native had shared painkillers with her companion, both in need of relief.

Samara poked the bridge of her nose and hissed. Despite the bone being set in its rightful place, the ache had only dulled to a point. Like a headache you couldn't get rid of no matter what. All in all, the women had managed to stop their injuries from bleeding further. Unfortunately, they couldn't stop their bodies from turning purple and yellow. With morbid amusement, Samara likened them to lizards shimmering in the sun.

Looking at the house, the marshal wondered what else still remained there. Obviously, she had seen some of the bags left behind and if she remembered correctly she hadn't touched them last time she was here. Samara had been more concentrated on finding provisions than snooping. Once they finished poking the walkers for the day, she swore she would search through each and every one of those backpacks.

"Michonne."

The woman grunted.

"We need to make an inventory of what we have and make a list on what we need." There was scarcely any food left inside the house and their meager rations will end in a day or two. "Find towns on the map. Pry open that car trunk and get that medical kit out no matter how small it is. And—"

"Once we finish our round, then."

Both women lapsed back into silence as they continued with their grueling task. They closed up on the burnt barn and Michonne observed it carefully before approaching the RV. Samara joined her, but did not step inside the vehicle. She already had a good idea what was strewn all over inside and she didn't need a visual confirmation. Michonne exited five minutes later, her usual narrow eyed expression set even deeper. She found nothing useful.

She stepped next to the marshal and gave the sorry sight one last perusal. "Must have been one night…"

"I don't want to talk about it, Michonne."

Turning on her heel, the Native trekked back through the snow, unwilling to look at the skeletons left behind from that night.

"You know, we could clean the RV—"

"That piece of junk broke down often. Dale was the only one who could fix it."

"Which one was Dale again?"

"The old one that stuck his nose in everyone's business."

"Ah." She recalled Andrea's disgruntled words about that one.

Dark eyes settled on the marshal. Now that they were on their own, they could finally talk freely. It wasn't that the sword-wielder couldn't talk around Andrea; it was just that there were some subjects only the two women understood.

—Most likely why they grudgingly knew more about each other than anyone else.

"You hoped that the necklace would be gone, didn't you?"

Samara paused for a moment before resuming her pace seemingly undisturbed, but Michonne knew better. Her question had thrown the marshal off balance. It had taken Michonne a few moments to put two and two together to realize what the marshal's intentions had been.

—Michonne's instincts were too sharp to let anything escape her.

"Yeah…" Samara drawled as she stabbed a walker. She had mulled over responding, but she knew that sooner or later they would broach this subject once again and she knew it wouldn't be Michonne initiating it. "Thought that they would at least check if maybe we came back. That we were still alive."

"If _you_ were alive."

Samara didn't need to answer. They both knew it.

"You miss them."

The glower sent towards the dark woman had no effect. She hated it when Michonne got chatty. Usually, she was so quiet she bordered on being mute. There had been days where Samara hadn't heard a peep out of her and days like this one where the need to socialize was strong and it was never about mundane things. It always about something she observed that Samara or Andrea didn't want to be noticed.

Seriously, the woman was worse than a hawk, but it was that sharpness that completed Samara's own awareness that kept them alive so far.

"Sometimes. Some of them were alright." Samara said softly as she scratched at her bandaged nose. Her lips then contorted into a light scowl. "But my anger overshadows any sadness I have in me."

She resumed walking, a bitterness overcoming her. At this point, Samara had no reason to hide what she felt. It was liberating every once in a while to just let go.

"What could they have done in their situation?"

"I'm not an idiot, Michonne." Samara waited for the other woman to catch up, taking her sunglasses off in the process. "I know that during that night they couldn't have done anything. At that point, it was every man for himself, but what about the morning after? What about the next few days?" The marshal scoffed derisively. "I mean, they looked for a little girl that had zero chances of surviving for over two weeks but they couldn't even look for me and Andrea for one day? Were we that disposable?"

"Maybe they thought you were dead." It was plausible considering how Samara had survived the hoard. "Why waste time on the dead when they could focus on the living."

"Thinking is different than seeing." To the marshal's perception of that night—which she had given a lot of time to ponder over—neither Daryl nor Carol actually saw her die. "Who knows what they saw, but I'm telling you now, if they weren't a hundred percent sure that I croaked and still left me behind because it was too much of a fucking inconvenience, I'm going to scalp them." The marshal fumed silently, her olive eyes darkening with a sickly emotion. "I will go full-blown, Old West Navajo on their asses. I promise you that."

The sword-wielder simply responded with a light huff. "This is the first time I actually see you show your true feelings about your former group, none of that bullshit that you've gotten over what happened. If you're angry you should be angry. Don't hold back what you feel just because it offends others."

"I wasn't suppressing them because I was trying to lie to myself. I was doing it because I didn't want to add more fuel to the fire. We've had a rough month. Why join the fray and make everything more unbearable?" Her brows then rose knowingly. "Besides, do you really want to hear me bitch and moan?"

It only took a moment for Michonne to envision such a scenario.

"Point taken."

The marshal grunted and slipped her sunglasses back in place. Her anger slowly deflated as she stared at the grey nothingness around her, a quiet gloom thinning her lips.

"The truth is I'm angry. I'm so angry that I could hit someone, but I also feel like an idiot. For trusting them and for feeling sad that they abandoned me. I was harsh and I was cold, but I helped them out and I protected them when they truly needed it. Was that not enough?" Samara's voice took on a more prickly aspect. "What else was I supposed to do? Shower them with love and sing a hippy song around the campfire? "

"Being nice would have probably helped."

"Fuck you." The marshal did not like being made a fool out of.

"Samara…" Michonne walked after the pissed off marshal. She hadn't meant to, it was just—"Sorry, but your whining was starting to grate on my ears." Seeing that the marshal wasn't placated—in fact it just made her walk even faster away—the sword-wielder caught her arm and pulled her back harshly.

"It's in the past." Michonne tried to calm the snarling woman. "They're not here anymore so what's the point in reliving this over and over again? Even Andrea has let them go. Let it die already."

"You think I don't want to?" Samara's voice rose with a pitch as she tapped her gloved fist against the center of her chest. "To be free of this black, soul-sucking vortex in my heart? I just can't let it go, not without some closure."

Michonne sighed in exasperation. She understood the marshal's plight, but the sword-wielder truly wished for this matter to end. Unfortunately, Samara was too bitter to start opening her heart towards forgiveness and Michonne could give her a thousand reasons to let go and they would still go through one ear and out the other.

The Native's only hope was either forgetting with the passage of time or confronting the reason head on. Since the latter had slim chances of ever happening, it seemed Michonne would have to rely on time to heal that particular wound.

* * *

Three hours later and they weren't even half-way done.

After a heated discussion, Michonne had conceded to finishing up the other half tomorrow. One hour more and that was it for today.

As they kept probing, Samara alternated between whistling sharply and clapping her hands similar to what a farmer does when crows descend on their crop—scare off the pests, but in this case it was to awaken them. They had only managed to find a few hibernating walkers and Samara wasn't sure if she should be happy or worried that there were almost no walkers on the property. Last time this happened a herd descended on this very farm, destroying it.

Speaking of the undead—

"Michonne, you alright?"

The woman gave her a confused frown.

"Terry and Mike, we left them behind. No…I ran over them."

"So?"

The marshal's eyes narrowed as she tried to see through her body language. Michonne had dragged those two walkers after her for more than seven months and considering that they used to be close before the virus, they must have meant something to her.

"Do you not care?"

"I mourned them a long time ago, Samara." She said quietly, an allusion of sorrow flowing through her words. "They were just ghosts I kept alive because I was alone."

Her words settled a chill underneath the marshal's skin. They reminded her of a different sort of ghost, one with fur and an annoying habit of needing to be petted at every moment of the day. Olive eyes traveled over the fields and settled on the smallest of graves where her once road companion was laid to rest.

Samara felt no sadness, thought. Alistair had been a good dog and he died a death befitting him. It was better that he passed away then since if he had still lived, Samara's wouldn't have been able to take care of him…or she would have ate him, and that would have been sad.

Dispelling such morbid thoughts, Samara went back to her tedious work. They were now outside of the fenced area and Samara's eyes narrowed as she saw something in the snow—there seemed to be a pair of black combat boots on a downed walker covered by snow and as she approached, they appeared to be in perfect shape. With the thought to replace her old ones, she kicked the walker's leg to gauge its state. When it made no move, Samara got to scavenging. The boots were a few sizes too big, but she couldn't complain.

As Samara's actions caused the body to jostle, the snow was shaken off revealing more and more of the walker. Once the boots were in Samara's possession, she looked down at the corpse to thank it in jest.

—Her words remained stuck in her throat.

 _The walker…_

It was Shane.

"…Fuck me."

Samara inspected the dead deputy with shocked eyes. His ash-grey skin was wrinkled and there was old crusted blood on the lower half of his face. Even with the changes she still could recognize him. It seemed that the cold preserved him well enough to be still identified.

"What is it?" Michonne joined her.

"I knew him." Samara said lowly as she smoothly wiped some snow from Shane's ice cold temple. "He was one of the Atlanta group—the deputy, Shane."

"The crazy one?"

Samara nodded slowly. "I wasn't aware that he had died back then. I thought that like Andrea he ran off or maybe got into one of the cars." Her eyes then landed on two bullet holes—one in the chest and the other in the forehead. "But then again, Shane wasn't exactly the luckiest of men."

It had been anticipated for a long time. Samara remembered that one moment before the hoard arrived when two gunshots signaled the insanity that had been the farm's last stand.

 _Did Rick kill Shane?_

The sheriff had been with the deputy that night and seemed the only explanation, but then why had he shot him in the chest first?

Rising up to her feet, Samara gave the deputy a pitying look. His obsession with Rick's family had cost him his life and now he laid here on the very farm he hadn't wanted to remain in the first place.

—The only end for a mad dog.

"I don't think we should tell Andrea about this. She's still recovering."

Samara snorted sardonically as she read between the lines. "Don't get so dramatic, Andrea isn't that weak-minded anymore. There was nothing romantic between them. They just fucked a few times. She'll just get a bit sad and then she'll get angry once she realizes how Shane died."

Michonne's brow furrowed as she couldn't understand how turning into a walker could upset the blond even further, but then she followed Samara's gaze towards the bullet holes.

"He was murdered."

"Yep, and I bet my guns that it was the sheriff who did the deed. Poetic, if you ask me."

"…I still think we shouldn't. Andrea didn't want to come here in the first place and we come and throw this in her lap…"

"I get what you're saying, but didn't we agree on not keeping any secrets from each other?" Which, Samara might add, had been Michonne's idea from the start.

Michonne breathed in deeply as she knew that Samara was right. For better or worse, Andrea had to know.

With the discovery of the former deputy, they concluded their walker hunt for the day. As the snow crunched underneath their boots, Samara gave Michonne a disapproving turn of her lips.

The sword-wielder's response was a blank face coupled with a questioning brow.

"You really need to stop pampering her, Michonne. Andrea's not a child and she's not an idiot."

Michonne's expression contorted into a slight frown. "I'm not babying her. I'm just worried."

"Worried isn't the same as obsessing over. Look, I know you love Andrea, but come on. She's strong, she can handle almost anything thrown at her. You shouldn't think so little of her."

When Samara couldn't hear Michonne anymore, she stopped and watched as the sword-wielder stood unmoving as a statue, her eyes the only part of her body breathing life—and they were troubled. This was the first time Samara saw Michonne so shaken up. She didn't even flinch when she killed someone alive, but she froze at the mere mention of something intimate going on between her and the blond.

"Why…would you think I love Andrea?"

"Because I can see the way you act around her. I'm surprised Andrea hasn't realized it yet."

Michonne shook off her stunned disposition.

"I'm _not_ in love with Andrea. She was the first person I met after the Turn that didn't try to kill me and she's not like you or I." At Samara's raised brow, the sword-wielder explained. "Back then she wouldn't have survived a day on her own so I took her under my wing. I protected her. It felt good being needed…but then she toughened up." Back when they had met, except for shooting her gun Andrea hadn't known anything. As time passed, Michonne had taught her more and more and then Samara came in the picture. The Native shared her knowledge, filling up the gaps that Michonne couldn't. "She's the only one of the three of us who still has some compassion and faith in what little there is left of humanity. That's why I care for her more than I should."

"Because she has something you lost?"

"No, Andrea has something I was too weak to hold on too."

Michonne's words felt like a blow. Taking off her sunglasses, Samara gazed at the sword-wielder with cautious skepticism.

"That's not weakness, Michonne. That's strength. Not many have the stomach to do what we do. We've survived some risky situations where others would have just shit their pants and died from their own stupidity. Surviving in this world doesn't come from being nice or sympathetic."

"I know." The only reason Michonne was still alive was because she had closed off parts of herself that dealt with compassion. "But if there is a chance to survive without losing yourself why not try it?" Michonne knew she was sliding down a slippery slope, each day losing another part of her being. "Do you really want to become some beast with only their basic instincts to depend on? That's damnation, Samara. I'd rather not walk that line and I don't understand why you would."

"Ah." Samara leered as her eyes flashed acidly. "So, in your story, I'm the monster."

Michonne sighed as once again the marshal only thought about herself.

"We're both monsters, Samara."

"Give me a fucking break!" Samara paced like caged animal, annoyed with the topic of this conversation. "I don't know what's gotten into you, but stop it. Go kill some walkers, make a new Terry and Mike, do something to get it out of your system because you're starting to sound crazier than you usually do."

Michonne watched passively as the marshal stomped back to the farmhouse. The sword-wielder knew that the marshal's anger was a direct cause of her words and that effect made her look at herself and see something she hadn't liked. And so, like Samara always did when confronted, she hid behind her callousness and practicality.

Michonne wasn't sorry for what she had said. Samara had wanted an answer and Michonne delivered it. Next time, the marshal should be more careful with what she asked.

Inside the house, Michonne saw Samara standing unsure in the hallway. Her eyes were on the blond, asleep on the couch by the fire. The two women had moved some of the furniture around so that the couch, coffee table and armchair would be closer to their only source of warmth.

"You want me to tell her?"

The marshal shook her head. This was something she had to do.

Michonne nodded and gave them some privacy.

With a deep inhale, Samara took off her hat and sunglasses. Sitting on the coffee table, she gently shook the blond awake.

"Wake up."

Sickly pale blue eyes regarded the marshal without focus.

"Can this wait?" Her Florida drawl could barely be discerned from the sleep haze and her cheek wound. "I'm tired."

"It can't."

Rubbing her tired eyes, Andrea yawned deeply before straightening herself on the couch. The movements wore her out immediately as she sat on her behind, breathing heavily.

Blue eyes focused more intently on the marshal's somber expression. "What's with that face?"

"Andrea…I found Shane."

The blonde's breath hitched. Her sleep haze seemed to be a thing of the past as she was now fully aware of the situation.

"Where?"

"In the fields." Samara pushed the wayward locks from her face. "Look, there's something you need to know."

"He's a walker, ain't he?" Andrea asked listlessly as if it was to be expected. Nobody died from other causes these days.

"He was. He was already down when I found him, but…" The marshal leaned forward, her elbows on her knees and an intense look in her olive eyes. "Andrea, he had been shot. He didn't turn from a bite."

The cogs turned.

"That night," Andrea's brows furrowed in remembrance. "Rick was with him."

Samara nodded.

"That son of a bitch…" Andrea leaned back on the couch, an incredulous huff escaping her. "He killed him."

"He didn't do it in cold blood. Grimes wasn't like that." Even with how deranged Shane was, Rick wouldn't have killed him just because he was an inconvenience. "There must have been a reason."

"Are you defendin' him?"

"No, but Shane wasn't exactly easy to get along with. Maybe they got into an argument and it spiraled into something nasty and Rick couldn't see any other way but to…"

"Shoot him."

"Yeah…"

They stood in silence, the occasional crackle of the burnt logs breaking the quiet. Both women were engulfed in their own thoughts.

"We should bury him." Andrea spoke more to herself. "Him and the others."

Samara's frown returned as she immediately saw the flaws. "After you get better, sure."

"No, _today_."

"Andrea, we have more important things to do than—"

"Than what?" The blonde glowered. This was one aspect of the marshal she could never grow used to—this indifference concerning those that had no part of her inner circle. "Bury our dead? Jimmy's inside that RV, Patricia is somewhere around. We don't let our dead stay out in the open like carrion, we bury them."

"Listen to me." All softness disappeared from the Native, replaced with hard, cold truth. "The ground is rock solid. After a winter like this, there is no chance in hell we'll dig through that earth without an excavator. They'll have to wait until the snow melts…or we burn them."

"Hell no." The mere thought of that idea had her stomach churn. "We burn walkers because they're nothin' and one less of them litterin' the earth is a service to mankind."

"Cremation isn't sacrilegious." To Samara, burning a body was easier than burying them. Cleaner, too. "In my culture—"

"We're not Navajo, Samara. Neither was Shane, Patricia or Jimmy. We hold funerals. We put stones on graves, we don't spread their ashes."

The wall in Samara's eyes was impenetrable. Not even a hint of a thought slipped her as she considered Andrea's words.

"Once spring hits, I'll dig the holes myself. I _promise_."

Andrea's shoulders sagged. That wasn't what she had wanted, but she wasn't in any state to do anything about it. She was bound to this couch and will be for who knows how long. For now, she could only agreed with the notion and hope that the woman will keep to her word.

"I know this sounds horrible, but we don't have a choice right now. It's not like they're going anywhere. Try not to think about it."

"How can I?" Andrea asked despondently. "Every time I look out the window I'm reminded of everything. And now, I know that three of our people are out there scattered on those fields. How am I supposed to feel about it?"

"Don't feel anything." Samara shrugged, her eyes empty. "It's better if you don't."

"I'm a lot of things, Samara, and indifferent ain't one of them." Pale eyes regarded the marshal hard. "I can't be like you. I can't not care about the few lives left on this god forsaken earth, especially since the people we're talkin' about used to share the same living space as us."

"Nobody said you have to be like me. Just...Try to keep that empathy of yours for people that are still alive and actually matter. The dead are just that, dead. They have no use for your sympathy."

Samara placed a comforting hand on the blond's shoulder before rising from the table. There wasn't anything else she could do. She wasn't good at soothing someone's heartache. For now, Andrea needed to grieve on her own, something neither of them had done since leaving the farm.

"Samara…"

With one foot away from leaving the room, Samara paused to listen to Andrea's words.

"What if we just take 'em to the shed? At least then I won't have to worry steppin' on them every time I go outside."

Since her back was turned, Andrea didn't get to see the grimace. Not because of the woman's request, but because this meant Samara would have to once again go outside and exhaust her already worn-out body.

Clenching her eyes shut, the marshal wanted nothing more than to refuse, but then the blond would call her cold-hearted and would stop talking to her for a certain amount of time. Samara really didn't have the patience to go through that again.

She nodded, putting a smile on Andrea's chapped lips.

"Thank you, Samara."

Samara nodded before walking out of the room and up the stairs. If she was about to do this, she wasn't going to do it alone. Michonne will just have to suffer alongside her.

* * *

The two women heaved as they dragged Shane's dead weight. As they reached the small wooden structure, Samara took his shoulders while Michonne his legs and they hauled him into the shed. After dropping him to the floor unceremoniously, they took a minute to breathe.

"I can't believe we're doing this." Michonne panted. She had been minutes away from falling asleep in an actual bed when Samara had dropped the bomb on her. "I understand she wants to bury her friends, but this is disgusting. These people are dead and Old World death rites don't apply anymore."

"I hear you." Samara straightened out as she wiped the sweat from her forehead. "But we all have our coping mechanisms—I bury my feelings and you talk to walkers."

Michonne's scathing glare had the marshal chuckling inside. That was revenge.

The sword-wielder pushed past her on the way out, earning a small grin from the marshal. Talking about her _particularities_ never failed in pissing Michonne off.

Picking up Jimmy's remains had been a sordid affair. Clumps of bones with rotted flesh still clung to them and his skull disconnected from the spine that still had hair and meat and one glassy eye. When Samara picked up the head, the eyeball fell out of the socket and insects crawled out.

—That was as much as her stomach could take.

"Oh Gods…" Samara spat bile in the snow as she stood hunched over herself.

Michonne soon exited the RV with Jimmy's bones wrapped up in a bed sheet. She tapped the marshal's back as the woman wiped her mouth and nodded to indicate that she was alright. Michonne wasn't in any state better, her dark skin paler than ever as she reluctantly held the remains.

Next and last was Patricia.

Samara lead the way towards the spot where she remembered the oldest sister perished. It was on the right side of the house, somewhere near a large tree.

Reaching the sight, both women shuffled through snow to find the remains.

The marshal's foot caught onto some tattered clothing. She signaled to Michonne to approach so they could dig up the corpse. As they moved the snow to the side, they discovered human bones stripped clean of meat. Picking up the tattered beige jacket, she tried to remember if this was what the Greene woman had worn that night. Nothing in her memories seemed to spark, so her eyes then traveled to the bones for answers.

"Fuck, I don't even know if this is Patricia or not."

Maybe if her straw blond hair had been left behind Samara could have been sure, but it seemed the walkers had eaten everything.

"Doesn't matter if it is." Michonne started collecting the bones. "It's the thought that counts. Let Andrea think it's them even if it isn't, so we can be done with this."

Samara threw the jacket away and picked up what Michonne gathered. Having no one left to collect, they headed back to the shed so they could deposit Jimmy and Patricia.

At the end, they breathed in relief knowing that this was their last ordeal for the day. The sun was finally starting to set and they had to focus on barricading the house for the night.

Leaving the shed, they came upon Andrea who was slowly making her way towards them. Michonne was the first to reach her and tried to redirect the blond back inside, but she refused adamantly. Michonne gave the marshal a pointed look to which Samara understood—Andrea could say her goodbyes and that was it.

The two castaway women looked at the shed in silence. Andrea made no move to go inside as she feared seeing Jimmy, Patricia or Shane in their current sate. The blonde would rather remember them as they once were, full of life.

The orange hue of the sun overshadowed them, the silence becoming too suffocating. There was a strange hollowness growing inside her that shouldn't be there, not in this moment. Andrea felt like she was betraying her earlier words thrown at the marshal. Like the bodies inside the shed held almost no importance when they should.

"You got anythin' to say? A prayer or a last goodbye?" Andrea grasped at straws to try and ignite her heart from its strange stillness.

"Not really. We weren't exactly that close."

"Huh…" Andrea gripped the blanket around her tighter, the emptiness never leaving her heart. "Surprisingly, neither do I."

* * *

 _ **Foot Note:**_ I know some of you are anxious for Samara to meet up with the Atlanta crew, but have patience. It will happen.


	5. Old Faces, New Faces II

"Well?"

"Two." Samara lowered the binoculars as she eyed the people next to the Chevrolet Sail. "One girl in her teens and one man around mid forty. They look relatively healthy if not a bit haggard." She turned to the two women beside her with a smirk. "I think we got something good here."

The three women were hiding behind the corner of a building. They had been scavenging a small town when they heard the running engine of a car. Following the noise, they were led to a small supermarket and waited to see what they were dealing with.

"You think they have anythin'?" Andrea asked a she looked through the binoculars for a better view. A month ago, the blond had been barely able to leave the sick bed and now she was standing on her own two feet, no traces of pneumonia in her body. Andrea had made a complete recovery in less than three weeks.

"Only one way to find out."

A pale hand landed atop Samara's shoulder, stopping her. The Native gave the blond a pointed look, but her smirk was friendly. "I know the rules. No shooting unless they draw first."

"Just checkin'." Andrea eyed the marshal skeptically. "You have a tendency to forget."

"Only when it's necessary."

—Marauding.

To some it was vile, to others a necessary evil. When push came to shove, there was no other option but to embrace the vicious nature of man and pray you don't get a taste for it. The women had ran out of food and necessity pushed them to reach out to other towns in hopes of a few morsels. Other than finding a few snacks they hadn't been very lucky in their search. So, when an opportunity presented itself in the form of other survivors that had a fifty-fifty chance of carrying food, they didn't waste it.

All three women checked their weapons and feed system. Andrea cocked her rifle as she watched Michonne unsheathe her katana with a practiced flick of her wrist, the blade's metal glinting in the morning sun.

They all had their own set of weapons. Andrea had her hunting rifle with scope—she was the marksman of the group—along with a handgun and a knife. Michonne had her trusty katana, a handgun and a knife while Samara held three handguns with the silencer, a knife in her boot and her machete. One of her handguns was empty while the others were almost full. Ammunition wasn't something they were abundant in either.

Andrea watched as Samara placed her fiber skeleton mask and sunglasses back over her face. She could never understand why the Native insisted on this getup—the mask, the shades, the hat and the Confederate coat. It made her look creepy and frankly, if Andrea hadn't known her, she would have shot her on sight just because of that the damned mask. This whole 'Halloween costume' disturbed her which probably was the marshal's intention.

They discussed strategy—Samara will pillage the car and be the lookout while Andrea and Michonne will round up the ones inside and bring them out.

As Samara rose to her feet and passed the crouching Andrea, she playfully slapped her over the side of her head.

"Softy…"

In mild annoyance, Andrea hit her back to which Samara grinned. With a huff, the blond followed as did Michonne and silently approached the supermarket.

As Samara watched the two women enter silently into the building, she once again perused the street. It was clean.

It was strange how void the town was, but it only told the marshal that walkers were most likely hiding and that loud noises were not a good idea. Nothing was as it seemed these days. It was February now and the snow had melted away, leaving only some patches of iced-over fluff. The coldness hadn't relented though as Samara and the others still had to keep their full winter garb on at all times.

It had been a rollercoaster of a month, Samara thought as she readjusted her hat. She and Michonne have had to make many scavenger hunts as food seemed to be scarce in the area. They were even forced to make one trip to Griffin, a city much bigger than what they were used to. While it had been productive, it had been too dangerous.

Opening the driver's door, she found the keys still in contact and in the backseat, a backpack filled with clothes and some pills still inside their boxes.

 _Useless._

Thank the Gods that winter was almost over. Moving around will become much easier and once the vegetation started blooming, they would leave for greener pastures. Nothing eventful had happened at the farm. Two or three walkers per week and the rest of the time the farm was as quiet as a tomb. They haven't even seen signs of humans since leaving the butcher shop way down south until now. The wounds they had sustained had healed nicely and Samara was glad that she managed to go a month without acquiring new ones. It was a welcome break from her usual fast paced life.

The front of the shop opened, breaking Samara's concentration. Michonne was the first to back out with her katana at ready. Next were the two people with their hands behind their heads—they were both scared and the girl was crying silent tears. Andrea ended the procession, holding her rifle to their backs.

"Did they give you any trouble?"

Michonne shook her head before pointing at the rucksack on her back. "They found some food inside. Not much, but enough. What about you?"

"Found some peanuts, clothes and a few pills."

"Pl—Please." The man's voice broke as he held his arms up. "Don't hurt my daughter. Kill me if you have to, but not her."

"Keep quiet." Andrea nudged the man in the shoulder with the barrel of her rifle.

Samara paid no attention to the man as she rounded up on the car and opened the trunk.

"There's nothin' there!" The man took a step forward before stopping dead in his tracks as the tip of Michonne's blade touched his throat. "Please…We ain't got no food, only what we found inside the store. We're searchin' for some ourselves."

"Get back." Michonne narrowed her eyes as she pricked his tender skin.

Inside, Samara found other bags—clothes, camping equipment, books, but no food. But there was an ice box right at the back, concealed by all the other baggage.

"What's in the box?"

The man turned ten shades paler. "N-Nothin'.

"Now, that's a lie." Samara smirked as she fingered the handle of her machete. "It's not a good idea to lie to me, stranger."

Fingers touched the lid.

"Don't open that! Please!" He tried to reach Samara, but Michonne decked him in the face with the handle of her blade. The man staggered but didn't fall, blood pouring out of his nose. His daughter screamed bloody murder as she huddled to her parent.

"Shut up, girl, unless you want me to hit you too."

The girl forcefully settled down after Michonne's threatening growl.

Samara opened the box. _What the—?_

There was meat inside.

Samara looked over to the man on the ground. He didn't look like a hunter and they had no gear for it so why hadn't he wanted her to see?

Something wasn't right.

Unsheathing her machete, she poked around, pushing the meat to the side until—

Samara's eyes widened behind the dark lenses. She carefully leaned away from the box, face set in stone.

"We got a problem."

The women looked over.

"What is it?"

Samara's gaze wandered over the contents of the ice box with dread.

—Human fingers.

"There's human meat inside this container." Dark shades glinted ominously as the marshal slowly approached the two strangers, her hand on the handle of her gun. "They're cannibals."

Andrea's face fell in horror as Michonne's eyes narrowed to slits.

"No, we're not! Please!"

"Then why the hell do you have severed fingers placed in an ice box? I don't see you or the girl missing any."

"Get down. Now!" Michonne got behind the man and kicked him in the back of his knees. He fell down, his daughter right after him in fright. She was on the verge of hysterics as tears mingled with saliva and snot.

"Please, spare us! We've had a rough winter. We couldn't find any food. My daughter had to eat—"

"So you ate someone?" Andrea couldn't decide between feeling rage or disgust or both. "How twisted are you?"

"You have no idea how hard it was! Tryin' to stay alive on nothin'! We were skin and bones! We could barely move and then Edna…She was too sick, too old." The man's head lowered shamefully as his voice was nothing more than a whisper. "She died and we thought…we thought—"

"That you'd just eat her like the undead would?" Samara spat at him, her features contorted.

"We had no choice! I wanted us to live!" He yelled as the tears now spilled freely down his cheeks. His daughter crawled into his arms, trying to make herself as small as possible. "Please, don't kill us! Anyone would have done the same!"

"No…" Andrea shook her head slowly. "No, we wouldn't have. I'd rather starve to death than become a savage." Never, not even when she hadn't eaten in days, had she thought of feasting on another person. It was immoral and inhuman.

"You think I wanted to do this?" He looked at all three women, judging him with their cold, harsh eyes. The eyes of killers. "I didn't! I could barely stand to look at myself after! But I did what I had to do to keep my daughter alive! Please, understand that! I'm just a guy put in an impossible situation!"

Pause.

Samara turned towards the sword-wielder. Even with her face completely hidden, Michonne could still understand what the marshal was silently asking, but she wouldn't participate this time. Michonne shook her head making the marshal's lips thin in annoyance.

–If the sword-wielder won't help then she'll have to do it herself.

"Andrea, step away."

The blond saw her companion tense in the arms, signaling that she was ready to shoot to kill.

"No! I told you we don't hurt them unless they try to hurt us first!"

"They ate a person."

"And we've killed people." The blond countered resolutely. "And I don't see you stoppin' any day now."

"Are you seriously lecturing me right now? I swear it's the same shit with you every damn time." Samara dropped her gun arm as she walked away muttering profanities under her breath.

The sword-wielder understood her predicament. She wasn't happy either, but this was a strange situation. These people weren't crazy and they weren't rabid for meat either, and in some dark corner of Michonne's mind she understood the desperation, but still…

"Thank you!" The man grabbed at the blond's pant leg, his eyes shining with joy and relief. "Thank you so mu—"

The man fell down again as Andrea introduced him to the butt end of her rifle.

"Shut up, I didn't do it for you. If you'd been alone I wouldn't hesitate to put a bullet in your skull. I understand that you had to keep your daughter safe. Lord knows, I'd have done anythin' for my sister, but you crossed a line even I can't condone." She crouched low so that the man understood her completely. "Now you listen good. We're gonna take everythin' you have and leave you with your lives."

"But how are we gonna survive with nothin'?!" His breath quickened as he imagined surviving the long stretch of road with no supplies.

Michonne had the answer. She walked towards the back of the car and grimaced at the contents inside. She placed the lid back and dumped the box in front of the two strangers.

Her intention was clear.

 _Reap what you sow._

"Come on, let's get out of here!" Samara called out to the two as she sat in the driver's seat.

Andrea threw the metal bat she had taken from the man before heading off towards the car, her eyes kept cautiously on them. Michonne climbed into the back and Andrea in the passenger seat and wasted no time in driving away with the car.

Andrea watched the wing mirror as the man tried to chase the car, but his human legs could not keep up and soon stopped, leaning over himself in exertion.

"I don't understand it…" Andrea said as she kept watching the man until he was nothing more than a crumb.

"No shit." Samara took off her sunglasses so Andrea could see her disgruntlement. "Leaving them alive like that. You're a goddamn idiot sometimes, I swear."

"They weren't dangerous. You saw 'em. They were just desperate."

"Screw that!" Samara threw her sunglasses on the dashboard making them bounce around. "We both know what desperation tastes like and I can tell you, I've never once felt the need to chomp on human flesh."

"It was bound to happen." Michonne said from the back as she sheathed her katana and placed it in her lap. "Ever watched a post-apocalyptic movie? There are always cannibals at the end of the world. It's logical they would appear, especially after a winter like this."

Samara glared at the woman through the rearview mirror. "Don't tell me you understand because I'd just call you a goddamn liar."

"What the hell are you so mad about? That we didn't kill them?" Andrea knew Samara had a vicious streak that sometimes toed a thin line, but not like this.

Samara's eyes widened incredulously before she ripped the mask off her face.

"We just let two cannibals go! And what the hell kind of question is that?! I'm not a goddamn monster, Andrea! I'm just thinking rationally here. Who's to say they won't do it again? Ever thought about that? What if the next people they meet they bash their heads open and continue what they started with sweet old Edna?"

Andrea was quiet.

"You don't know, do you? And I'm the monster here…"

"You don't know either, Samara." Michonne kicked the back of the marshal's seat. "Don't jump down her throat just because you didn't get your way back there."

The Native's glare was scathing.

"It would've been a waste of bullets, either way. They were no threat to us and there was nothing to gain from killing them. If they decide to debase themselves further, let them. It's not our problem."

An exasperated groan resounded from the driver. One was Gandhi with a rifle, the other a wild card. These were the moments the marshal hated the most—when their opinions differentiated. They worked like a well oiled machine when they were of the same mind, but when they picked their sides all cards were out. One wanted to rid the world of such monsters, another wanted to give them a second chance and the other one just didn't care.

Samara didn't like this. Unity is what kept them going all this time, what kept them alive. It wasn't often they came across a situation they couldn't agree on or that couldn't be reached to a conclusion that left each party content. She did not need a repeat of the Atlanta group.

 _Fuck it…Out of sight, out of mind._

"I wonder if this is what the world will come to." Andrea mused as she watched the trees go by rapidly. "Savages. Brutes. Cannibals…" A pale hand rubbed her tired features. "Have we regressed so much in such a short amount of time?"

The marshal snorted cynically. "Are you actually surprised? The three of us are not exactly the most morally right of people these days. You remember how I was when we first met and only three months had passed since the virus broke out. Let nine months go by without a society that has rules and punishments and this is what you get—no man's land."

"It just feels unreal." Her head rested on the cool glass of the window, eyes drifting with the scenery. "Like a dream…"

"Or a nightmare." Michonne added as she adjusted in the backseat for a short nap. They still had some way to go until they arrived at the farm and a break was very much needed.

* * *

"All right, so we have four bags of cheese puffs—which two are expired—two 1L bottles of Cola, a peanut bag, two bags of beef jerky, a can of tuna, three cans of beans and pork, some pills for headaches and nausea, and clothes. And…jackpot!" A pink plump pack was raised like a grand-prized trophy. "We have tampons."

"You're kiddin'…" Andrea smiled like a kid of Christmas Eve. "Oh, thank god! I don't think I can stand wearin' rags anymore."

Samara smirked as she reclined on the aged couch. "You and me both."

They had arrived back at the farm not ten minutes ago and they were currently examining their bounty. As always, they gathered in the living room where they spent the majority of their time. Separating, while ideal, was something they couldn't afford in case of emergency, even at night.

"It's not enough food." The two women broke out of their joyful haze as Michonne looked over the food calculatingly. "Good for a few days, but that's it."

Andrea sighed forlornly. "We're goin' back out again, ain't we?"

The marshal leaned over her knees, her fingers intertwined. Going out was not something Samara was looking forward to. She hated risking their lives so often on these excursions because last time they stumbled upon metal-hand guy.

"I think we should try hunting again."

Michonne gave Samara a deadpan look.

"I've caught animals before, didn't I?"

"With bullets. We can't waste the little ammo we have left on your escapades."

"Then I'll try the bow again."

A snort came from the blond sitting next to the Native.

"Thanks for the encouragement." Samara smiled fallaciously. "It's really appreciated."

The woman gave the marshal a guilty look, but the damned smirk couldn't be contained. "I'm sorry, it's just that the last time you used that thing, you got so angry you threw it at a tree."

The trip to Griffin weeks ago had secured Samara a compound bow complete with a quiver and a dozen arrows. The only thing she had to do to get it was wrestle them off a walker. Needless to say, it hadn't exactly been easy.

To be truthful, the marshal had no idea what she was doing with it. She had made a small target near the house and practiced every day, but to the marshal's disappointment, it didn't work. Samara would sometimes rage quit, throwing the bow somewhere and leaving it there for a few hours before sheepishly picking it up once again.

"Look, it's either I try hunting with that stupid bow or we go back to Griffin tomorrow."

That soured the sword-wielder's mood, but neither noticed that Andrea wasn't even paying attention to them anymore. There was an uneasiness about her, her head tilted as if in deep thought.

"No, it's too risky. We riled up the walkers last time we were there."

"It's been over a week, they must have moved on since."

"I don't kn—"

"Do you hear that?" Andrea's southern lilt broke through the two women's conversation like a whip.

Both lapsed into silence as they listened intently. Shuffling feet, groaning, moaning—this is what they kept their ears sharp for.

"I don't hear anything."

"Listen."

Seconds ticked by.

A rumble.

Samara looked towards her dark companion in inquiry and mouthed, 'Thunder?'

Michonne shook her head slowly, her grip on her katana knuckle-white. Something was wrong and it wasn't the weather.

They heard another rumble, only this more succinct. All three women's thoughts resonated at the same time.

 _Car._

Michonne wasted no time as she put the fire out while Andrea and Samara picked up the baggage strewn around the room. Once finished, the sword-wielder pushed the window's cover and peaked through the glass. Her apprehension turned to reality as a truck drove down the dirt road.

Michonne raised one finger and the marshal nodded in understanding—one car.

The women moved with the bags as they set in motion their contingency plan in case of attack of the human kind. The plan they had agreed on was that their fort was the second floor since there was only one way up and it was through a staircase which they barricaded a while ago.

Atop the stairs, Samara and Michonne jumped over the sacks of bricks piled atop another. Michonne was the one that had found the bricks near the shed. Most likely Hershel had wanted to build something but never got the chance to once the virus broke out. The marshal, upon seeing them, had the idea to gather them into sacks. They needed shields in case of an attack and wood wasn't sturdy enough. Bullets would just blast right through them, but bricks…that was a different story. Stack enough of them and you had yourself a superior shield.

While Samara and Michonne loaded their guns against the rigid brick wall, Andrea ran into the first room that had a window towards the front of the house and observed the car.

"Fuck!" Samara hissed as she cocked her Glock. "How did they find this place? We took down the mailbox!"

Michonne shook her head unknowingly before a stray thought gave her pause. "Maybe it's the Atlanta group."

Something akin to an electric current passed through Samara.

"It's not _them_."

Michonne eyed the marshal shrewdly. She hated to break her bubble, but the chances were high. "They're the only people that know of this place."

"And so do others that lived in this area."

"There's three people!" They heard Andrea call out. "One's tall and bulky and the others are lean and a few inches shorter. I'm pretty sure one of the shorter one's a woman. They're all wearing black police helmets and the shorter guy is in full body armor."

Samara frowned in thought. "That sounds like riot gear. Damn, that means they all have bullet-proof vests. Andrea, what weapons do they have?"

"Shotguns, rifles, handguns, two bats and a machete is all I see."

"They're armed to the teeth and they have riot gear." Michonne mused calculatingly before turning to the marshal, her features set in stone. "Don't prisons also have that sort of thing?"

The color drain out of the marshal's face.

"You don't think…"

The sword-wielder looked at her pointedly. It was probable.

"Shit!" Samara bit her lower lip as dread gripped her bearing. To have a repeat of last month would cripple their group exponentially, maybe even break them.

 _No, I refuse. I'll die before that happens._

"Doesn't matter, they're not leaving this farm alive. We know this place and we know how to use it to our advantage. Andrea, come here!" As soon as the blond joined, Samara started speaking. "Now listen, Michonne you know what you have to do. The moment you hear gunshots you do your part and let us take out the rest. If one of them manages to leave the house, you take him down, but don't kill him. We need to know what we're dealing with." Samara rolled the fiber mask back up her face and gazed at all three women with hellfire in her eyes. "Make every bullet count."

Michonne nodded and left. Her part was jumping down the roof—they had moved the car right underneath the respective window for her to have a safe landing—and lock the front door once the three people got inside. The back door they had already blocked with a few well placed planks nailed in deeply. The women hadn't needed the door since they had other escape routes and so decided to board it, just in case.

Andrea and Samara set up their defensive position and waited. The first step on the porch had them tense as sweat poured down their brows. Silently, the steps moved towards the front and with a silent click, the door opened. One by one, three people came inside in a triangle formation. Good thing the women had covered all the windows, this way the light didn't get out to attract attention and inside was semi-dark, easy to miss things.

The bulky man, which turned out to be a black man in his mid-thirties, was the first to see the writing on the wall.

"What the hell? Did you guys wri—"

Bang!

Andrea's bullet hit the man in the middle of his chest and down he went.

The two women opened fire in the confusion.

Samara heard the screams and curses as bullets flew. The interlopers took up their guns and didn't waste time in retaliating. The woman covered the full body armored man as he dragged the unmoving man towards the door, but as they tried the handle, Samara could almost feel their panic as the door proved locked. From outside, Michonne had accomplished her task.

The one that Andrea shot stirred, got up with the help of full body armor man and limped towards the living area. It seemed Samara's theory on all of them having bullet-proof vests was correct.

One of Samara's bullets hit home in the thigh of the shooting assailant making her yelp. She was young by the sound of her voice. Andrea hissed as the girl started shooting again, this time aggressively.

—Blood trickled onto the floor.

"You alright?" Samara saw a patch of crimson rapidly soaking the top of Andrea's jacket.

The blond nodded, wincing as she rolled her shoulder. "Bitch just grazed me."

From outside, Michonne watched the chaos unravel. It was time for her to join in. Aiming her gun, the sword-wielder pulled the trigger. The glass broke with a piercing crack and the others ducked and covered behind the couch to avoid the onslaught.

Samara cursed as she had no more visual of their targets. It was up to Michonne to flush them out.

Michonne narrowed her eyes at the silence on the other end of the battle field. Whatever the three of them were doing, she didn't like it. In a flash, two guns appeared from behind the back of the couch and Michonne ran. Just as she jumped over the railing, the wall of the house exploded with a shower of bullets and debris. Landing on her feet, the sword-wielder waited until their bullets ran out.

Andrea and Samara ducked behind the bricks as one of them rounded up on the corner and shot at them, clipping Samara's left ear in the process.

"Fuck!" Her hand came from her ear with blood splattered on the dark leather. A few inches in and it would have been 'Goodnight, Samara'. The worst part was that except for a low buzzing sound, Samara couldn't hear anything on her left side.

Andrea reacted as the anger from her earlier injury hadn't subsided. A click marking the emptiness of her clip made the blond growl. There was only one magazine left for the rifle so she needed to make every bullet count.

On the count of two, both women rose from the cover and started shooting. The girl downstairs retreated from the corner as a hail of bullets perforated the floors and wall.

"Hey! Whoever you are shootin' at us, we're not here to harm you!"

The marshal frowned as her finger paused on the trigger. Something about the girl's voice…

"I know this place! This is my father's home!"

Samara and Andrea simultaneously choked on their own spit. A look of utter shock passed between them, rendering them mute. No fucking way did they just hear that.

"Did she just say…?" Andrea whispered in utter disbelief as she slowly lowered her rifle. Peeking over the top of the brick sacks, the blond looked at the masked girl that peered over the edge. "Maggie, is that you?"

The girl froze.

More of the helmet appeared from over the corner. A gloved hand reached for the transparent plastic shield and pushed it over the helmet.

There it was. Her face.

—Maggie Greene.

Andrea couldn't even categorize Maggie's expression—awe, relief, shock, incredulity. All of that and more.

"Andrea?"

The blond stood at full height, her anger and need for battle all but forgotten in the face of such an extraordinary happening. Just a few feet from her was a person that the blond had never thought she would set eyes on again. A person she had chosen to put behind.

Movement at the corner of her eye.

Pale blue eyes shifted towards a gun aimed at those behind the Greene girl.

"Michonne, no!"

Too late. The bullet exploded out of the gun and found a target.

"Oh, God! Glenn!"

Samara's eyes widened further from behind the brick shield. _Glenn's here too?_

In her haste to get down the stairs, Andrea almost tripped over the brick wall. Olive eyes followed the blond as she reached the first floor. As her initial astonishment concluded, Samara was left with a tart taste in her mouth and a clear mind.

Glenn and Maggie with an unknown man. A new member of the group maybe? Or maybe they splintered off from the Atlanta group and were on their own?

With haste, Samara followed the blond's path. Once passed the corner, she saw Maggie crouched by the body in riot armor behind the sofa. The helmet was off his head and she could see Glenn's mop of raven hair in the girl's lap. His eyes were closed and he wasn't moving.

 _Fuck…Michonne killed him._

Her heart fluttered in dread, but it wasn't as strong as it used to be all those months ago when she still saw the group on a daily basis. Now, Samara just saw Glenn as an old acquaintance. Like a high-school classmate you hadn't seen in decades—familiar, but not enough to be emotionally invested in.

Tears poured out of Maggie as she patted Glenn on the cheek repeatedly. There was no puddle of blood around Glenn's head and Samara could see the embedded bullet in the helmet. He was still alive which made him the luckiest Korean left on the planet.

"Come on, babe. Wake up!"

A scrape against the wooden floor caught Samara's attention. The black man had his gun up and aimed at the oblivious Andrea whose whole attention was on Glenn. The marshal's stomach plummeted as she saw his finger applying pressure.

The man stopped short of pulling the trigger as a sharp blade pressed to his throat.

"Don't even think about it." Michonne threatened. "Drop the gun."

The weapon fell to the floor as he held his hands up in surrender.

Glenn groaned in pain. He had the worse headache ever and there was an annoying buzz in his ears. What the hell happened? One moment he thought he heard Andrea and then nothing. His eyes opened to see Maggie's concerned face, only it was in double and spinning lightly.

"What happened? My head hurts."

"Your helmet got shot." Maggie sniffed as she stroked his cheek. "Then you fell and hit your head."

"Oh." Glenn brought his hand to the back of his head and saw tiny spots of blood on his fingers. "For a moment there I thought I was dead. I actually heard Andrea."

He felt a tug and his attention came back to his girlfriend. Maggie was smiling tenderly as her eyes moved to something on his side. Following her gaze, what he came upon had his mind go blank.

Andrea.

Distorted and in double, but it was her, and she was kneeling right next to his prone body.

There was a tense silence, neither party making the first move.

"…Andrea?"

The blond smiled.

The effect was immediate.

Forgetting his injury, Glenn jumped Andrea with a tight hug.

"Holy shit, Andrea! You're alive!"

The marshal leaned against the wall separating the living from the hallways and watched the happy reunion with a detached gaze. A part of her felt joy at seeing two former companions, to know that they were alive despite everything, but the other part was already forming up questions. She needed information—where they've been, what they've been doing and where they were right now.

"This is the Atlanta group?" Michonne asked as she watched Andrea embracing the two young ones.

"Yeah. That's Glenn and Maggie and he's…" Samara's eyes connected with the man kneeling on the floor. "I don't know who he is."

Maggie, upon hearing her name, looked behind her. The other person that had been shooting at them was another woman with long black hair kept in a low ponytail, a long coat that she recognized as Confederate, army boots, leather gloves and a menacing mask hiding half of her face, but those narrowed, cold green eyes and russet skin were unmistakable.

"Oh my god…" Maggie's words shook with something akin to unbelieving trepidation. "Samara."

Her croak caught Samara's attention and her gaze settled back on the farm girl.

"Hey, Maggie."

Glenn's arms slid from Andrea as he looked at the Native in shocked wonder. Glenn blinked hard to dispel the haze, wondering if this was some hallucination brought on by his jarred brain, but no matter what he did the woman wouldn't disappear from his vision.

"Is it really you?"

Samara snorted as she pulled the mask down. "Who else?"

A blink.

Glenn laughed loudly as he tried to stand on shaky legs. Andrea had to help him, but as soon as he stood straight he inelegantly walked over to the marshal and fell into her embrace, his laughter still on his lips.

The corner of Samara's mouth twitched. While she had no problem with Glenn hugging her, Samara was rather hesitant in doing it at all. Old memories stirred and she felt a knee-jerk reaction in pushing Glenn away. He represented them and she had no desire to be around them.

"I can't believe this! You're alive too!"

As Samara's hand rose to pull him away by the back of his jacket it paused at the last moment and kindly settled on his back. Samara sighed internally as she came to the conclusion that a scene was unneeded right now, so she half-heartedly hugged the Korean back.

—The marshal would never admit it, but the hug actually made her feel slightly better.

"But how?" Glenn pulled away from her, his fingers tightly on her shoulders. His teary eyes searched for answers, anything to tell him her story. "Daryl told us you were dead."

"We'll, I'm not."

"You have no idea how great it is to see you guys again!" He let the marshal go as he wiped his eyes of the accumulated salty liquid. The smile on his face was warm as his gaze exchanged between the two women, still in awe of what this day actually brought. Glenn had believed that it would be a depressing sight to be back at the farm, but now he felt a euphoria he hadn't in a long time. "Wait till the others see you. We haven't had good news like this in some time."

Samara blanched.

"Who says we want to see them?"

Glenn's joy cracked minutely. "What do you mean? You're coming with us…right?"

"Glenn."

Everyone's attention riveted over to the man still kneeling on the ground with Michonne's blade pressed to his jugular. It seemed that in their joy they had forgotten the other occupants of the room.

"Can somebody tell her to put that sword down?"

* * *

Everyone was gathered at the kitchen table, patching up their wounds. Michonne was cleaning up Andrea's graze while Glenn was tending to Maggie's thigh. Luckily, the bullet went clean through and now all Glenn had to do was clean the wound and patch it up until they got to Hershel.

"This is gonna hurt." Glenn warned his girlfriend as he unscrewed the lid of a small bottle of sanitary alcohol.

"I know." She whispered as a grimace contorted her features. Placing a belt between her teeth, she bit on it harshly. Her scream was muffled by the leather, but not enough as some of it got past. Maggie's fist crashed against the table as the pain practically had her seeing stars.

The unknown man had taken off his vest to inspect the damage—there was a patch of red skin the size of a fist right in the middle of his chest. Poking it, he winced at the extreme soreness. That was going to hurt for at least a week.

Andrea hissed before biting her fist once Michonne applied the same liquid over her cut. It stung like a bitch!

Samara leaned against the defunct fridge with a towel pressed to her ear to stop the bleeding. The buzz was still present, but it wasn't as loud as before. Attentively, she watched everyone as they fussed over themselves.

This is taking too long, Samara thought with a frown. The anticipation was killing her.

"Glenn, where are you holed up?"

"There's a prison outside of Newnan. We've been living there since December."

So, metal-hand guy and his cronies didn't come from there then. If there was one thing the marshal knew was that the sheriff would have never let someone like that live right next to his family. Samara huffed in little to no amusement as she shared a knowing look with the other two women. They were all thinking about the same thing—

"Did you by any chance find a prisoner there?" Samara asked as she felt irony crawling up her spine. "Mid-twenties to early thirties, black, a bit short?"

"Yeah." Glenn paused, confused. "How did you know that?"

"We met him." Andrea pointed towards the ghastly scar that traveled across her cheek.

Glenn's eyes widened as he only now saw the scar. Before, he had been too overjoyed to see past the fact that both the blond and Native were alive. "He did that to you?"

"What do you think?" Andrea snapped in irritation before wincing as Michonne slid the needle and thread in her skin.

"We thought that he died." Maggie heaved as cold sweat poured down her forehead. "He ran out of the prison before we could shoot him and there were walkers outside the fence. We didn't think he'd get too far."

"Oh, he's dead alright." The blond's pale blues alluded to icebergs. "I made sure of that."

Maggie frowned in slight unease at the coldness in the woman's eyes. Despite what the blond had done to her sister, she now knew that it hadn't been with ill intent, but looking at her now, Maggie didn't exactly recognize her—she was a different person entirely.

"How did you manage to secure a prison?" Michonne cut through the silence like a knife through butter. "It must've been filled with walkers."

"It was." The unknown black man finally spoke. "We killed them, cleaned the place up."

"We got a gym, a movie projector, kitchen, medical ward, beds, everything." Glenn smiled as he finished the final touches on the bandage. "It's what we've been looking for—a safe place to live in."

Michonne and Samara glanced at each other pointedly. A safe place in their eyes equaled to a fairyland. They knew that the farm and even the cabin were only temporary locations to live in. Only good enough until the walkers caught up to them and then it was off to the next location. It seemed the Atlanta group still hadn't realized that yet.

"Who's still alive?"

"All of us, except…" Glenn's words cut off as a shadow fell over him. Maggie's slim fingers threaded with his limp ones, giving him strength to speak. Glenn tenderly smiled at her before taking a deep breath and continuing.

"T-Dog. He was bitten."

Andrea gasped, her hand covering her mouth in horror.

Samara sighed as the impact hit her. Out of all the people, T-Dog had to die. Someone who had a good grip on the new reality they faced had now joined the legion of the dead. Samara had genuinely liked him—he had been a good man, someone who knew how to balance himself between compassion and survival. She might not have always agreed with him, but she knew his heart had been in the right place. For him to die, out of all the people that didn't deserve to still breathe, was distressing.

"How did it happen?" Distantly, Samara heard Andrea's choked question. His death must have hit her harder as she had known the man longer.

She listened silently to Glenn's story—Andrew had broken the locks on the fences and let the walkers roam inside the prison courtyard and once the alarm went off, attracting walkers from all around the prison, everyone ran to save their lives. Glenn had been with Rick, Daryl and two inmates on their way to the generator room to shut down the alarm, Maggie had ended up with Lori and Carl inside another generator room and T-Dog with Carol. They managed to kill the alarm and fought Andrew there, but the slippery man got away for the second time. They didn't get the chance to chase him down as their walker problem was much more immediate. As they searched the building for the others that had scattered, they found T-Dog's body getting devoured. There was nothing they could have done for him. A day later, Daryl found Carol barely conscious hiding inside a room. She told them that T-Dog had been bit soon after the walkers were let loose inside, but kept going on for Carol's sake to keep her alive even with his dying breath and that was what he did—he marched into a hoard of walkers so Carol could have a fighting chance.

As soon as Samara heard that, she internally scoffed. _Of course_ she _was involved._

The marshal rubbed her jaw as she could envision the whole scenario. Gods, what a brutal death. Even knowing that he was going to die, to just use himself as a distraction was something Samara couldn't understand. To the Native, being ripped apart by those bastards while you were still alive was her worst nightmare. She wouldn't have had the strength to go through something so gruesome and excruciating, but T-Dog did for someone he cared about, maybe even loved like family, and she respected him deeply for that.

Just not for _whom_ he did it for.

"First was one, now three inmates." Michonne cut the thread before eyeing the Korean. She had let her two companions have their minute of silence, but now she wanted answers and neither Andrea nor Samara seemed capable of rational thought at the moment. "How many are there exactly?"

"Actually, there were five initially." Glenn finally found his voice as he dispelled the difficult memories from his mind. "They had been holed up in the kitchen since the virus broke out, surviving on the storeroom. Only two of them are still alive—Axel and Oscar."

"Killed the others?"

"One of them. He was one of those guys that needed to be locked up for life." Glenn rose from his crouch and washed his hands in a metal bucket. "Another one, Big Tiny, he was bitten and you know what happened to Andrew."

"You trust those two?" Michonne covered up Andrea's stitches with a roll of bandages.

The Korean settled on the edge of the sink with a pensive air as he wiped his hands on a towel. After everything that had happened—"They proved themselves."

Like waking up from a dream, the marshal's mind paddled towards current events. With a heavy heart, she pushed the sorrow back and concentrated on the conversation flowing in front of her. She will grieve the man when she had some privacy.

Samara's eyes turned to the unknown man. "So which one are you, Axel or Oscar?"

It took a second for the man to realize he was being addressed and he didn't appear to support the comparison. "Do I look like an inmate?"

"You look like someone I've never seen before."

"My name's Tyreese."

His name was not exactly what interested Samara. "So, if you're not a prisoner then who are you?"

"We met Tyreese sometime in November, him and his sister, Sasha." Glenn answered as he walked back towards Maggie. "They helped us get out of a tight situation and we decided to stick together."

"We were more back then." Tyreese said in a regretful manner as he gently pulled his wooly jumper back over his chest, careful of the large bruise. "Allen and Donna and their son, Ben. We lost Donna first, then Allen and Ben just split from us. Allen just lost it, he blamed—"

"That's all very sad, but I just wanted a simple answer." Samara cut him off before he fell into some grief-stricken monologue. She had no interest in one.

Tyreese was left speechless as he silently looked to Glenn for an answer. The Korean shrugged, he was more than aware of Samara's callous tendencies and it seemed not even the months apart cured her of them.

As the marshal stood near her companions, Andrea's leg struck out and kicked her in the shin. Samara bit her lip and glared wide-eyed at the blond. _What the hell was that for?!_

Andrea gave her an annoyed look before shaking her head in incredulity. Sometimes even Andrea couldn't believe the things that came out of the Native's mouth and, even more, for her to remain absolutely oblivious to them.

"Glad to meet you, Tyreese. I'm Andrea." Andrea gave the man a small nod as she sniffled. There were unshed tears clinging to her pale lashes and she quickly wiped them with the sleeve of her coat. "This is Michonne and the insensitive one is Samara."

"You're the ones that got separated from the group last year." Memories of a conversation around the fire gave him insight on the women, or at least two of them if he remembered correctly. "I remember Rick saying something like that."

"Is that what he said?" Samara smiled nastily. "That we got 'separated'?"

Before anyone else could inquire, Michonne intervened. This was not the time for Samara's anger to surface. "Why did you come back here? I suppose there's something here that you want."

"We need my dad's farmin' supplies." Maggie hissed at the strain of standing on her injured leg. She'd never been shot before so this acute pain was something new to her senses. "He wants to start croppin' fields."

Glenn helped the farm girl shoulder much of the burden as he checked the pocket watch Hershel gave him. They had four hours until nightfall and he didn't want to lose any more daylight to complete their task.

"It's getting late so we need to hurry." Glenn helped Maggie get to the couch in the living. The girl settled with a groan as she raised her injured leg to sit on the armrest. She needed to keep it elevated, her father's words coming to mind.

"You should start packing your things." Glenn gave the three women a serious look. He was not leaving without them, if they wanted to or not. "Tyreese and I will get the tools. We'll leave once we're done."

* * *

Olive eyes studied the two men outside as they moved a manual plow to the truck's bed.

"Why the hell should we go with them? We're better off on our own."

The three of them had relocated upstairs in Hershel's old room with their bags at the foot of his bed, ready even before Glenn and Maggie drove here. The women needed to converse privately and sort this whole situation out before time ran out.

"They have a prison. That's a good enough reason." Michonne supplemented from her place on the armchair, her katana resting familiarly in her lap.

"What about the cabin?" Andrea asked softly as she reclined at the head of the bed, pillows underneath her injured shoulder. She still wasn't up to talking as the effects of T-Dog's death pulled her into a deep chasm.

"A prison is a more secure place. I'd trade a wooden box for a fortress any day." The sword-wielder looked both women in the eye before casting her dice. "I vote we go."

"…So do I."

"I can't." Samara shook her head, the very idea making her skin crawl unpleasantly. "I can't go back to them. Not after everything. Not after leaving us behind."

"This is about survival, Samara." Michonne had already anticipated the marshal's refusal. "It doesn't matter what you feel about them, what's important is that we will have high fences around us. Weapons, food, medicine. If we have to play nice with them to live there, so be it. Grind your teeth and nod friendly on occasion."

The sword-wielder's words echoed like a bad record. Samara had used almost the exact same words a month ago when they discussed the farm as a refuge and now Michonne was turning the tables on her.

—It didn't sit well with her.

"I'd rather run around with walkers on chains eating twigs for another five months than sleep one day under the same roof as them."

"Samara, we're constantly running low on supplies and anything of use in this area has already been depleted." It had been rather hard to find anything of value as of late and it dawned on Michonne that they would either have to broaden their search area or leave. "If we go through another five months like the ones we've just lived through, one of us is not going to make it. Not this time."

"What are you talking about? We held our own."

"And look where that got us. We were chased out of our own home with nothing but some meager rations. Everything we've gathered over several weeks we lost within an hour because we were too few in numbers and malnourished and dying." Michonne then narrowed her eyes on the stubborn Native. She needed to take a step back to understand their situation which wasn't as fine as she believed. "Andrea was sick for almost a month, almost died because of it. We were barely managing, Samara. You remember what _we_ had to go through?"

Yes, she did. She remembered how hard it had been, before and after Andrea got sick.

"But she got better! The three of us made it. After everything we've been through, I know we can survive anything that comes at us."

"We can if we have to, but it wasn't only skill that got us this far. We should have died many times, but we always found that loophole that kept us alive."

"Bullshit!" The marshal spat as she increasingly got riled up. "We saved each other's asses all winter! That's wasn't luck, that was skill! Are you seriously downplaying yourself?" Samara paused and took a deep breath to calm down. Once she opened her eyes, clarity was again present. "The three of us are strong together. We know all our weaknesses and strengths; we know how to balance each other. Why ruin that?"

"Because I'm tired, Samara!" Andrea exploded. The emotional part of her felt so drained that she just wanted this useless discussion to be over. "Five months on the road movin' place to place, scavengin', livin' in a meat locker. That was no life. I'm starved and exhausted and sleep deprived. I don't have another five months in me! Not like that!"

Her chest heaved as all the air left her lungs. Her companions stared at her fixedly—Andrea wasn't exactly prone to outbursts.

The blond looked each woman in the eye austerely. "We always talked about this place, didn't we? A refuge. That idea is what kept us goin'."

"Yeah, but we were talking about the cabin not a prison."

"Cabin, prison, who cares? It's the same thing!"

"No, it's not because _they_ are there!" The marshal threw her hands up in the air. "You remember them, Andrea? Dale and Rick who left you to be chased by a dozen walkers in the night? Carol and Daryl who left me for dead underneath two walkers? Why the hell would we go back to unreliable people like that?"

Andrea deflated, feeling all her muscles sag with mental exhaustion. Even after all this time, Samara still didn't get it. A part of her had known the marshal still held on to old grudges, but she hadn't realized until now how deep it went.

"Samara…It's not like we went lookin' for them either." Andrea needed the Native to stop swimming against the current for once. She had made her peace, so why couldn't Samara? "We all went our separate ways after the farm and we never looked back once. Can you honestly say that you tried findin' them?"

Speechless.

That was how Andrea had left her. Samara felt like the aforementioned rug had been taken right from underneath her feet. She hadn't wanted to hear it—the voice of reason—but now it was shoved in her face like a bad stench.

It was the truth, wasn't it? Samara hadn't even checked the highway in case the others stuck around. She had viciously removed them from her mind so she could move forward, so she could have some measure of control over her life after what happened. There were no 'what if's' or 'maybe's' in her vocabulary, just cold practicality. Atlanta group bailed on her that night so she bailed on them.

 _Out of sight, out of mind…_

Even knowing these sane reasons for dropping her anger, Samara still couldn't. Like a drug habit you didn't have the power to kick on your own. It was annoying and exhausting, but her whole being wouldn't let her.

"Then let's stay there until spring."

Both Michonne and Andrea perked up at the marshal's numb words.

"This way we'll have a chance to gather enough supplies for the road. You heard Maggie, Hershel wants to plant vegetables. We could learn from this and then make our own garden at the cabin. Live off our own food so we won't have to go scavenging."

Michonne's lips upturned slightly in dark amusement. "You want to raid your former group?"

"No, we trade our skills for supplies." Samara rose to her feet no longer haggard, but feeling her old self again. There was steel in her eyes and the women knew that right behind that rigidity was bitter shrewdness.

"And if your sheriff doesn't agree?"

"He will. He owes me and Andrea this. He won't get to refuse."

"But if?" Michonne leaned forward in her seat, listening to the Native's plan with her own set of keen senses.

"If…" Samara looked the two women dead in the eyes with zero empathy. "Then we raid the shit out of them. This is my compromise. Either that," The marshal took a deep breath, faltering only once. "Or we go our separate ways."

Michonne settled back in her seat, her curiosity satisfied. So, it was blackmail, then?

Andrea picked up a pillow and threw it to which Samara deflected it with a hand.

"Don't do that! Don't give us an ultimatum, not after everythin'!"

The marshal wouldn't listen. This was her final decision and she wouldn't change it. It was either they waited at the prison come spring or she walked her own path. It'll be hard to leave the two women, but Samara will do it. She wanted to protect what was left of her sanity and not fall into the same pattern as she had a few months ago, always torn between what needed to be done and the group's feelings and rules. Besides, Samara wasn't worried about their safety; both women had each other to watch out. She could leave them knowing they would be alright.

"What's your answer?"

Michonne nodded without hesitation. While she knew Samara was serious about leaving, the sword-wielder wasn't about to leave _her_. The three of them had to stick together no matter what, and not even the prospect of a warm bed could steer the woman's loyalty from a friend. If it came to that then Michonne would walk right beside the marshal out through the prison's gates.

Dark eyes settled over the blond. But Andrea?

The woman in questioned sighed as her head fell in both her hands. How was she supposed to make this work? Andrea hadn't been joking when she said she couldn't go through another few months like the ones before. She didn't feel capable anymore. She desperately wanted a break from all the worrying and constant stress the shortage of supplies gave her. She wanted just once to sleep without one eye open and now that an opportunity was given to her on a silver platter, Samara tried to take it away because of some old resentment.

She didn't want to part ways with her. As harsh as Samara was, she was still a dear friend and someone who had risked her life to save hers. Andrea couldn't just let her go, not while knowing what could happen to her out there. Her heart wouldn't let her.

But there was still time until spring, time to change Samara's mind and break that chain of bitterness she hid deep inside.

* * *

 _ **Foot Note:**_ So, the ladies made contact with the Atlanta group. I guess you know what that means next chapter? *wink wink*


	6. United We Stand

_**Author's Note:**_

To **chibiRomy** – Yes, I am following both the comic and the TV show. I mentioned before that Samara's journey is going to be a mix between the two. Sometimes it's hard assimilating the two since I have to revisit every episode and comic number to see what could be introduced, what could be left out, what to use later etc. But it is challenging so I like that.

Enjoy this chapter!

* * *

Samara descended the steps one at a time, her backpack slung over her shoulder. She didn't feel ready to leave considering where their destination was, but she couldn't stall. Nightfall was closing in fast and the men had finished loading everything useful.

In the hall, Michonne was holding on to both hers and Andrea's bags as the blond helped Maggie to her feet.

"Did you guys write that?" For the better part of the hours, Maggie had done nothing but stare at the words on the wall, written in both hers and Beth's lipstick. The combination of chipped wallpaper and crusted over wax made her feel like she was in a haunted house.

"I did after that night." Samara said as she readjusted her cowboy hat.

The message had been intended for them… _If_ they ever decided to come back.

The women left the house and met up with Glenn and Tyreese as they finished up arranging the tools in the truck's bed.

"Everything's ready. Let's go." Glenn called out as he checked his watch again. It was near sunset and they had to leave.

Samara was with Michonne placing their bags in the trunk of their Chevrolet. As the marshal closed the trunk she eyed the dark woman in question— _are we really doing this?_

Michonne smirked for a second before patting the Native on the back. _Yes, we are._

With a groan, Samara followed her companion. As they neared, she could hear Andrea's sympathetic words.

"We buried Patricia, Jimmy and Shane next to the others. If you wanna say goodbye before we leave..."

Samara almost forgot about them. Only a few days ago, they had managed to dig through the soil for three graves. Just in time as the rise in temperature was starting to decompose what was left of the cadavers.

Maggie detached from the blond and tried to dash over to the graves on her own. She would skip there on one leg if she had to—that was her sister buried there. Glenn stopped Maggie in time before she worsened her injury and helped her reach her destination.

Leaning against the Ford, Samara rummaged through her pockets and pulled out the orange container. All this excitement had gotten her back all worked up and from the corner of her eye she could see Tyreese watching her as she chewed on a pill. She paid it no mind.

"I'll be glad to get rid of this place." Andrea rubbed her sore shoulder as she gazed at the farmhouse. Even after all these months, the sight of it so deserted made her skin crawl. "I swear I've had some of the most terrifyin' nightmares since comin' here."

Samara snorted dryly. _You're not the only one._

Olive eyes stared forlornly at the two lovers kneeling by Patricia's grave. Glenn had his arm around the girl as she wiped the tears off her cheeks. Samara had thought that what Glenn and Maggie had back a few months ago had been just a spur of the moment, but it seemed it transcended into actual love.

She was happy for them. _Really_.

There was enough darkness in this world. A tiny flame in the shadows might be just what they needed to keep themselves motivated to go forward. Love had that effect.

Too bad that it could be taken so easily in these times. Just one scratch and it was over. And then pain. Immeasurable pain that tore apart the very foundation of your soul. That was the risk, and the two lovers had decided to take that chance. She wished them all the luck in the world even though she was skeptical it would last.

Soon after, they left the farm. The Chevrolet followed the truck at a short distance as they drove in the way of the dirt road. Looking in the rear-view mirror, Samara bid her last farewell to the house, to Alistair and everyone that had lost their lives there.

Michonne was behind the wheel as Samara sat beside her and Andrea in the back. There was a strange tension clogging up the air, at least for the two former group women. In about an hour they were going to be reunited with the rest of their former companions.

—Samara felt like throwing up.

Her nerves were a mess and Andrea wasn't in any state better, but her attempts at hiding them were making it even more obvious.

 _Gods_ …Samara massaged the middle of her chest. She didn't know if she was on the verge of a panic attack or if she was going to have a stroke. Probably both.

"You ain't feelin' too hot either, are you?" Lime green connected with pale blue in the rear-view mirror. Even with the small smile, Andrea just couldn't mask the faint jitter to her words.

Samara didn't answer as she wondered in a small fit of insanity what would happen if she took control of the steering wheel. Her eyes slid to the woman behind it and knew that Michonne would most likely punch her in the face if she tried.

Half an hour into their drive and the sky bled steadily into orange. The shade of red will soon grow dark enough for stars to finally come out and shine like glitter over a vast obsidian canvas.

Over the horizon, the town they had raided this morning appeared. Passing through it, she could see the supermarket ahead and—

The marshal's mouth opened in awe as the ice box was in the same exact place Michonne had left it. There was no sign of the two people they had robbed, just the box.

 _No fucking way they left it behind…_

As Samara followed the scene with her eyes, she turned in her seat until she lost it completely. Her gaze landed on Andrea who also had seen the box. There was something indiscernible staring back at the marshal.

Twitch.

"Not a fucking word…" Samara hid herself behind her sunglasses. She didn't need or want the 'I-told-you-so'.

Apprehensively, she tried to understand what happened to the two strangers. Had they been run off by walkers or did they actually leave the box behind, opting to save their souls from themselves? If it had been the latter, which was increasingly apparent, then that meant that Andrea had been right. Those people had just been desperate and Samara had been seconds away from shooting them. While that didn't necessarily horrify her, the fact that she had been wrong was more maddening.

Samara knew why she had never considered Andrea's option—

She hadn't cared. If they were good, if they were bad, it didn't matter. Before reuniting with the sheriff at Wiltshire, when she had shot that kid accidentally, she had felt bad, guilty for killing a scared teenager, but now…she wasn't so sure anymore. There were times when even her own actions worried her, at how far she was willing to go.

—The spiral down the rabbit hole was getting deeper.

* * *

Rick ran with his gun in hand.

He had been sitting atop one of the outdoor tables, enjoying the last of the sun's rays when Sasha shouted from the guard tower that a Ford's headlights appeared on the road. Initially, Rick had been relieved that the others made it back in time, but when Sasha yelled again, it changed.

—There was another car following the truck.

The woman's loud announcement had everyone in the vicinity on alert. Daryl gathered the arrows he had been making on one of the other tables, Carl dropped the basket ball and ran after his dad, Dale picked up his rifle and followed, and Lori and Carol stood behind the fenced walls with Beth and Hershel, all armed and ready.

Axel and Oscar, who had been walking the fences to finish off the walkers, opened the gates for the cars to enter. They tried peering through the window of the second car, but it sped past too quickly for either of them to catch a glimpse of the passengers.

Rick held up his hand for the Ford to stop before reaching the inner courtyard. He didn't know who was in the second car and he wasn't going to allow them inside without knowing first. Daryl and Carl took point as their crossbow and gun were pointed at the Chevrolet.

Rick let a heavy breath out. Dammit, he sent Glenn after farming tools and he came back with other people!

The passenger and driver doors opened and Glenn and Tyreese stepped out. Having left the tower, Sasha rushed over to her brother and tried to hug him only for the man to stop her. His chest still hurt like hell.

Glenn opened the back door and the sheriff tensed as the Korean helped an injured Maggie out of the car. Her thigh was bandaged and there was a patch of crimson bleeding into it.

"Glenn, what the hell happened?" Cold eyes landed on the Chevrolet with apprehension. "Who's in the other car?"

"Maggie!" The blond haired teenager ran once she saw the blood, her father on her heels as fast as his one leg would allow. Reaching her sister, Beth looked over her with her heart in her throat. "Maggie, are you alright? Please, tell me you weren't bit."

"No, I'm fine." The older Greene sister comforted the younger with a reassuring smile. "I got shot, but it was an accident."

"Accident?!"

The brilliant smile that lightened up Glenn's face had the sheriff pause in incredulity.

"You won't believe what we found." He pointed behind them. "Look!"

* * *

Samara felt her stomach constrict painfully as Glenn pointed at them.

The moment she had seen the prison she knew it was show time and there was nothing more she hated than being in the spotlight.

Samara gazed at the dozen or so people as her fingers clenched over her knees.

 _Oh Gods._

 _There they are. The Atlanta group._

The Native lowered herself in her seat, making herself as small as possible.

She could see him. The Kentucky sheriff. He was striding towards them with purpose, his gun in his hand. Beside him was the hunter, his trusty crossbow up and aimed, and the Grimes boy…or maybe boy no longer as he marched unwavering after his father with a silenced gun in hand and sheriff hat resting firmly on his head.

"Well?" Michonne's fingers tapped against the steering wheel as she gave the marshal a questioning look. "Are we staying or are we going?"

Opening the car door, Michonne took the initiative.

A heavy sigh from behind caught the marshal's attention. Both women stared at each other in resignation.

 _This is it. No backing out now._

Opening the door, Andrea got out. Placing her hat back over her head, Samara followed. With slow strides, she reached Michonne's side that was leaning against the hood of their car.

The headlights provided the marshal with enough visual of what happened next.

* * *

Rick froze mid step, the caution and tension dissipating as he spotted familiar wavy blond hair the color of straw. The woman stepped closer and he could see a maroon fur jacket, baggy dark cargo pants, winter boots and a rifle slung over her shoulder. As she distanced herself from the headlights and reached him, he silently gasped.

He couldn't even think—

"Andrea…"

It hadn't been Rick that uttered her name but the man standing next to him. Dale rushed past him, towards the woman he had cared for like a daughter. A daughter that had returned to him, alive and safe. Andrea didn't reject the old man, but embraced him fully. Dale was practically crying as he held onto the blond like a life-saving crutch, a whisper of 'You're alive' being repeated like a looping vinyl.

Rick rested his hands on his hips as he tried to make sense of this. Andrea was alive. Where had she been all this time?

The others had finally reached them and it had been instantaneous. They gasped in shock, astonishment and awe. A ghost had decided to visit them or maybe torment them with their past decisions.

Dale grudgingly detached from Andrea as Lori and Carol came up to the woman, each wanting to embrace her. The older man wiped the tears away as he couldn't keep his eyes off the blond. He thought she had been lost to him forever.

Rick stepped forward, a warm smile on his lips. Now that he had a better view of her he could see the scar that traveled from the corner of her lips to her ear.

"My Lord, what happened to your face?" Lori asked horrified as she tried to touch the ugly scar only to have Andrea recoil.

"It's a long story."

* * *

Daryl actually cracked a smile as he lowered his crossbow. Not in thousand years had he ever thought that he would see Andrea again. It was nothing short of a miracle.

But there was still one problem. Or two.

Blue eyes moved to the strangers reclining against the hood of the car. He couldn't see them clearly since the sun had completely sunk, leaving barely any natural light and the car's headlights messed further with his vision. Stepping closer, he passed the sheriff who was now firmly embracing Andrea and realized that the two strangers were women.

He could see one of them was a black woman in her mid thirties with dreadlocks and a bandanna over her forehead. She was dressed in a man's dark leather bomber jacket with beige fur trimming, dark grey jeans with faded white splatters and hiking boots. There was a handle of a sword sticking out from her back and a knife holster could be seen underneath her jacket. Now, the other one…her face was hidden by a tipped over cowboy hat.

The hunter's interest peaked as he observed the woman's getup—combat boots, dark pants, leather gloves and…a real _goddamn_ Confederate greatcoat of arms.

His gaze traveled from the 'Unionist' to the black woman and back. Now there was an image he never thought he would see in his life—southern grey and ebony skin sitting side by side.

But as he got closer, a foreboding feeling began churning in the pit of his stomach. Something about the Confederate was skewed, like one of those 3D pictures you had to go cross-eyed to see the real image hidden within.

The unnamed sword-wielder was now watching his approach hawkishly. Maybe it was because of the growing darkness, but he couldn't read her. There was nothing in her composure or in her stare that gave him an insight into her thoughts, just a static screen. She was smart not to leave her guard down even if her blond companion knew his people.

Daryl halted just a meter away from them, his eyes reverting back to the grey coat. The woman still hadn't raised the hat, but something blue caught his attention. Her coat's neckline was parted reveling turquoise beads hanging around her tan throat. They hung low as they disappeared underneath her coat, but he did catch a glimpse of ivory.

—A fang.

Not any kind, but bear.

That churning feeling just turned to a searing boil.

Blue beaded necklace with bear fangs…He had seen that necklace a thousand times before. In the Indian's pictures, but the necklace had been worn by the marshal's father not—

 _No._

She had had one also. The same one. Every day she had worn it at the farm and Daryl had never once seen her without it.

A veil seemed to lift from the pressure on his brain. The buzzing in his ears stopped altogether and Daryl's heartbeat pounded like a war drum in his chest. Slow, agonizingly slow, his eyes dragged themselves upwards and—

Cold eyes stared at him from underneath the rim of the hat.

He knew those eyes. Eyes the color of olives encircled by a deep emerald ring and if you looked closely you could see dark golden flakes scattered in them.

"Shit!"

Daryl took a step back in wild panic. Stories of specters, doomed to walk this plane, assaulted him. Spirits that couldn't rest until they were avenged, and now, the Indian's came back for her due.

Taking a hold of himself, Daryl held his ground. He might believe in some mystical things, but what was staring at him was not a ghost but a human.

It then dawned on him.

— _Samara._

No, it couldn't be. He had seen her go down with two walkers. He saw her die.

 _Didn't I?_

* * *

The hunter's outburst caught the sheriff's attention.

Daryl was backing away in actual fear from the two women by the second car. That captured his full attention as Daryl never showed panic, not even in the dreariest of moments. Frowning, her left his group and walked towards the two foreign women. As he got closer, he could see a sword and…shoulder holsters. The position of the guns brought a pang of familiarity. He'd only known one person in this new world keep their weapons in that same exact position.

That nagging feeling at the back of his mind grew tenth fold as he shortened the distance. The woman closest to him, the one in the greatcoat, looked towards him and it took all of Rick's self-control not to have a heart-attack.

 _No way…It can't be…_

—The US Deputy Marshal of West Virginia.

"Samara."

Rick's loud whisper had the same effect as dropping a bomb. A dead silence descended on the group. Everyone watched as the living dead took the necessary steps until she stood just a few feet from their stunned leader. Samara looked him up and down with the same coldness she had greeted Daryl.

"Long time no see, sheriff."

Time seemed to slow as every member of the Atlanta group seemed frozen in doubt.

"What's with those faces?" Samara smirked humorlessly. "You all look like you've seen a ghost."

Rick shook his head slowly in disbelief, his clammy hands shaking lightly.

"You died…"

The marshal's sneer deepened. "I don't die so easily."

One beat.

Two.

With long strides, Rick walked up to the marshal and embraced her so powerfully that her hat fell. Despite her initial surprise, Samara quickly recovered and went along with the sheriff's bear hug.

Her eyes slid over to Michonne who was watching them astutely. _Grind your teeth and smile on occasion, huh?_ With reluctance, she wrapped her hands around him and Samara could have sworn she felt the sheriff's muscles slack.

"I thought you were dead." He whispered into her hair.

 _Almost._

Her fingers sunk into his jacket as, for just a split moment, her heart fluttered. She hadn't seen Rick in almost half a year and Samara lost control of her traitorous emotions. An old part of her felt so damned _relieved_ to see him again. A bit shaggy, but she didn't exactly look too rosy either.

But the feeling passed and Samara disentangled from him.

Rick didn't feel like letting go just yet as his hand remained on her shoulder, squeezing it so Samara wouldn't disappear like a mirage. His smile was soft and awed as he scrutinized every inch of her face. The shadows underneath her eyes had a purple hue to them now and she seemed to sport some new scars—one over the bridge of her nose and a cut across her left eyebrow.

"Goddamn…" His fingers moved from her shoulder to her throat, cupping it with his thumb on her pulse. It didn't escape his notice the tiny quiver to her blood. "You have no idea how good it is to see you."

Samara slowly stepped out of his arm's range and let his coarse fingers slip from her throat. That had been too personal for her tastes and Rick seemed to snap out of whatever reverie he had been in. He cleared his throat and stepped back from her with his hands on his hips, his eye never changing from their burning joy.

Dale was the only other to embrace the marshal as the others all had reasons not to engage the woman. Carol stood behind as she felt her throat clog with dread. She just couldn't join in the merriment even if she was glad Samara was alive. Lori didn't even think to join since she had never exactly gotten along or liked the Native, and her husband's warm welcome just made her feel out of place. As for her son…Carl looked at Samara in apathy. There was nothing—no smile, no joy, just a stone wall. It was like Carl was looking at a stranger, someone that he held no sentiment for. Hershel and Beth both felt relieved as they saw the woman, but decided to let her have her space as the remembered her as being a rather distant woman.

And Daryl…he felt the same thing Carol did. Guilt and dread all mixed up into an ugly ball that clawed at his insides.

Rick's eyes moved to the sword-wielder who was approaching them at a leisure pace. He had actually forgotten about her as his focus had been on the two women.

The Native cleared her throat once her companion stood beside her. "Michonne, this is the Kentucky sheriff, Rick Grimes. Sheriff, meet Michonne."

Michonne nodded in greeting as she analyzed him piercingly. So, this was the man Samara talked about.

The marshal's eyes fleeted over the towering building. Even at the end of civilization, prisons still gave her a depressing feeling. Old buildings over-packed with too many bad men sent off livid, deathlike vibes that made your skin crawl.

"Nice place you got here." She already hated it and she hadn't even stepped foot inside it yet. "Do we get a tour?"

* * *

"Where have you been all this time?"

"Here and there."

The three women had been taken to the mess hall and gathered around the tables. They sat alone while the others were scattered around with Daryl at the farthest. Hershel was with his daughter, checking up on her leg while a young woman—presumably Tyreese's sister that Samara couldn't, for the life of her, remember her name—was bandaging his chest. The old farmer had informed Tyreese that he sported a fractured rib and that he was lucky it hadn't broken.

"We walked the countryside until we eventually settled south in a small town called Geneva from November to early January. We had to leave the town so we decided to go back to the farm where we've been living until Glenn and Maggie came around."

That had been the short answer. The longer would have garnered too many questions that Samara didn't feel apt to answer.

"Why did you leave?" Rick asked as he sat on the table opposite the women's, right in front of the marshal with his son next to him.

"We were ran out by walkers." Samara answered before any of her companions could.

Michonne and Andrea gave each other a fleeting look, both questioning why Samara was holding back.

"What about you?" Andrea placed her elbows on the table, rubbing her frozen hands. "Glenn said you've only been here since December."

"Like you, we drove from place to place. Never stoppin' too long." Rick said as his eyes wandered over the room. "Finally, we found the prison and decided to take the chance. It was worth it in the end."

Samara listened with only one ear, opting to scrutinize the others instead. Nothing had much changed in their appearance except for the bags underneath their eyes and the longer hair, but what really caught her attention were the four people she didn't know. The man Tyreese, his sister and the two convicts who were surprisingly still in their prison uniforms—a tall, black man in his early thirties and a short white man in his late forties that reminded Samara of a very skinny redneck-biker. She would watch those two until she devised her own opinion. Samara had never trusted convicts and she wasn't about to start now, no matter if they had the group's trust.

"I'm sorry, this has been eatin' me up since I saw it." Andrea's voice brought Samara out of her thoughts. "Hershel, what the hell happened to your leg?"

Samara's gaze unconsciously slid over to the Greene patriarch's missing limb. Had he been is some accident or some infection gone astray?

"I got bit while we were cleanin' this place up." Hershel looked at the emptiness where his leg used to be. "Rick saved me. Cut off my leg before the virus could spread."

That peaked Michonne's curiosity. "You can do that?"

"Apparently. Cut off the infected limb fast enough and you have a chance at survivin'. That is if you survive blood loss first."

That was good to know. If Samara ever got bit on the finger, she could just hack it off real quick and still live to tell the tale.

"How did you survive?" Carl asked as he looked from Samara to Andrea. It didn't escape the marshal's notice how grim he was, different from the shy little boy that could barely look her in the eye.

"That night, I ran into the forest." The memory of that night still haunted Andrea even in her waking hours. "Kept runnin' until day broke. I was so tired that I fell and I thought that was it. Walkers were almost upon me and I couldn't see a way out." Pale blue eyes then moved to the woman next to her, a grateful shine to them. "But then Michonne appeared out of nowhere and saved me. We caught up to Samara three weeks later and we've been together since."

Everyone then looked at the marshal. They were most interested in how she had lived through that night. From what Carol and Daryl had told them, even to the tiniest detail, there was no way she could have survived. But here she was, living and breathing.

Feeling their burning stares, Samara sighed before retelling her part of the story. "I wasn't so lucky to get away. I stayed right in the same place you last saw me." Olive eyes burned Daryl and Carol in their intensity. "Those two walkers, I shot them before they could bite me. Stayed underneath them until the horde passed next sunset."

At least she didn't flinch while retelling the story. The urge to pop a pill was strong, but she abstained. The view in front of her was much more entertaining. Everyone's faces fell into horror at the knowledge that Samara had spent almost an entire day trapped on the farm with just two bodies protecting her from a hundred or so walkers.

 _Yes, feel guilty. Feel like shit._

"Jesus…" Dale exclaimed in shock, his bushy brows almost meeting in the center.

Rick also stared at Samara in dismay, but she chose to ignore it. Her eyes were on a different person altogether, but the man wouldn't meet her gaze. Daryl's head was turned as he harshly bit on his thumb, avoiding her and his own guilt.

"Samara, I-I'm sorry."

If it hadn't been for Michonne's sudden stern grip on her knee, Samara would have exploded. With a self-control that even she was impressed at, the marshal listened to Carol's apologies with an open ear.

"I didn't see the walkers." The woman held onto the base of her throat, her other arm wrapped around her midsection. A defensive posture. "I couldn't concentrate on nothin' but gettin' to Daryl and when I did see those walkers catch up to you—"

"You panicked." Samara's voice was calm, too calm to her two companion's knowledge of the Native's rather aggressive nature. "Could've happened to anyone. The only thing that matters is that we're alive."

Pause.

"Well, not T-Dog." Samara's calm eyes landed on Carol. "He didn't."

And there it was. The viciousness.

Samara heard Andrea mutter a disbelieving 'Oh my god' from behind her fist, but she didn't care. The satisfaction at seeing the older woman flinch in anguish overlooked the fact she used a dead man—no matter how she felt about him—in her petty revenge.

Some hadn't realized that Samara's statement had been meant maliciously, but those that have known her longer weren't happy. Lori looked aghast and while her husband didn't outright show anything, Samara could sense the chaos within him expressed only in a thinning of his lips. Daryl had stopped chewing on his thumb and narrowed his eyes irately on the Native while Glenn and Dale were left shaken.

Andrea gave Samara a furious scowl, but the marshal paid her no mind. She didn't honestly expect her to not snap at them at least once.

"Glenn told us about T-Dog. I'm sorry it happened." Andrea decided that the marshal wasn't worth it right now; she'll scold her later when they were alone. "He was a good man."

"He was." Rick said as she shook off the memory of when he found the man half-eaten by walkers. He had lost others along the way, but never in such a gruesome fashion. T-Dog had been a trusted friend and he was missed every day.

A moment of silence was given to the man's memory.

"That night...Did you all make it to the highway?"

"Yeah." Lori answered Andrea's question as her glare was still on the Native. "We waited for you. Dale told us you ran, but he wasn't sure if you made it. We tried to stay as long as we could at the car jam, but walkers showed up. We had no choice but to leave. I'm sorry, but we couldn't wait."

"Yeah, I figured as much." As lame as the explanation was, Andrea understood it. She would have done the same if she had been in their shoes.

The marshal suddenly got up from the table. "As nice as this reunion is, where can I find the showers? I haven't bathed in quite some time and as you probably already sensed, I _stink_."

Samara had been sociable enough for one day and she wanted to use the facility's full services.

"I'll show you." Rick rose to his feet. "Then I'll take you to your cells so you can get settled in."

"You sleep in the cells?" While it didn't exactly appeal to Andrea, she wasn't going to be picky.

"Only place that got beds."

Samara snorted lightly. She, a US Marshal living in a prison cell — either that was pure irony or Samara had that one coming for some time.

* * *

"Oh Gods..." Samara moaned as the first droplets of water hit her naked body. "Hot water."

The three women were enjoying their long awaited bath as they stood in the shower room, listening to the pitter of water on tiles. The warm steam embraced them like a forgotten lover, something they hadn't experienced in quite some time.

"The only thing missin' is a bathtub so I can sleep in it." Andrea smiled she combed her fingers through her hair, feeling the grime wash off. "Bubbles, candles, relaxing music and a bottle of rose wine. Oh, I really want that."

The amusement slowly slipped off the blond's face as she pondered on the last hour. Meeting everyone again has had a strange effect on her. "All those faces…seem like a lifetime since I've last saw them. I even forgot what Beth's face looked like. It took me a few seconds to realize who she was."

"I know what you mean." Samara spread the soap's foam over her arms. "I barely recognized Carl. He grew up."

No longer was he the shy little boy hanging by his mother's apron, now he was battle-hardened and, consequentially, worn-out because of the times they lived in.

 _Welcome to the world of adults, Carl. The one you wanted so much._

"Do you really hate them?" Blue eyes searched her with quiet intensity.

Samara sighed as she ducked underneath the soothing spray of water.

"I hate what they did, not who they are."

She had really thought that she did. All this time, she couldn't have thought of them without feeling a burning hatred, but it had been directed at that one single choice, not at the whole of the group. Samara always chose to overlook that one detail, but now…she couldn't keep up the lie anymore. Seeing them in the flesh drove out the images of devils and replaced them with simple humans that made mistakes.

—The actions of a few did not make the whole.

Samara paused as she thought better.

"Well, maybe I hate Carol." That woman had been the whole reason the marshal had ended up in such a gory mess. "I could have spent the entire of my life not knowing what it's like living under two walkers."

Andrea said nothing to that. From what she gathered out of Samara words, the woman endangered them both when she refused to run into the forest, instead opting to return where the walkers were. But this had been Samara's side of the story. The blond would need to hear Carol's version before she could side with anyone or none at all.

"I'm going to talk to Grimes tonight." Samara announced as she scrubbed her hair furiously, mindful of the taped bandage on her ear. "I need to tell him about the metal-hand guy and his group. If they ever find this place, he needs to know what he's up against."

Michonne agreed fullheartedly. If those people ever came here, they would be outgunned and, probably, outnumbered.

"Are you gonna tell him about our temporary stay?"

Samara nodded.

"We did good comin' here, Samara." Andrea closed her eyes as she turned the knob for just a little more heat. It was harder for her to wash as her shoulder was still sore and she had to avoid wetting the inflamed area. "This place is better than any we've ever stayed at."

Samara grunted, not offering an answer.

"Hey, Mich." Andrea called out to the woman that had been overtly silent. "What do you think of the group?"

The sword-wielder shrugged. Nothing jumped to her interest, except—"I think the sheriff was very _happy_ to see you."

The woman in question froze before narrowing her eyes on the accuser. With excellent precision, Samara launched her small bar of soap at Michonne, hitting her right in the chest. The look she received made Samara happy that her dreadlock sporting companion didn't have her katana anywhere near.

"Now that you mention it…" Andrea gave the marshal a sly sidelong glance. "What was that? He didn't hug me that eagerly."

Samara groaned in annoyance. "Not you too."

"All those times I saw just the two of you talk." The blond had to bite her lip to keep herself from grinning. "Hell, you even went in the forest alone one time. Whenever somethin' happened, you were the one he used to run to. Charmin' to watch, ain't it, Michonne?"

"Almost like a soap opera."

Samara bit her tongue from barking back while the tip of her ears burned. "You two are enjoying this way too much."

"I mean really, Samara." The blond continued without any shame. Watching the marshal squirm was a most entertaining sight. "He's got a kid on the way—"

"Never proven it was his." The Native muttered grouchily under her breath.

"—And you're just waltzin' in here makin' him drape himself all over you." She ended with a mock reprimanding tsk.

"Must be that disarming _charm_ of hers." Michonne threw in her two cents, a small quirk on her chapped lips. "Smells like love to me."

Samara snapped.

"Fuck off, the both of you!" She pointed at both women with an irritable scowl. They were ganging up on her unfairly. "How about we all enjoy this shower in silence? Stick to your side and I'll stick to mine. Quietly."

Michonne and Andrea chuckled as they watched Samara turn her back on them with an angry huff. The marshal had it coming. She shouldn't have brought up T-Dog in that manner.

Andrea didn't think for one second that there was anything more to the two lawmen that friendship, or at least a past one. Samara was too destructive and emotionally stunted to feel anything intimate for anyone. Love and happiness had become a foreign language and Andrea wasn't sure if she would ever recover from it.

* * *

Blue eyes watched as the three women were lead by Grimes to their respective cells. They had chosen the ones at the other end of the block, farthest away from the others.

His habit seemed to be in full force today as he couldn't stop chewing on his thumb. He had already broken the skin on the other and now was a few layers away from bloodying this one. He couldn't help himself. The moment he saw the Indian he knew a card had just been drawn from the makeshift house, toppling over his carefully constructed inner balance.

—The marshal was alive and he had left her behind.

It hadn't been intentional. He had seen her go down and thought that that was the end of her story. At that time, he had Carol with him so his thoughts revolved around at least saving one of them.

There was nothing he could have done. He had been backed up into a corner with only one way out. One that hadn't included the marshal and it had eaten at him for days.

Olive eyes noticed his vigil.

The muscles at the corner of his mouth twitched. Samara scrutinized him with little to no emotion, but there was something judging from that intensity. He knew some part of her blamed him for her misfortune. To remain on the farm with just two walkers covering your scent…he knew how that felt. Daryl himself had used the same method to escape the horde back at the highway and he could still vividly remember the paralyzing fear. Being unable to move as the walkers slowly shuffled past his prone body, praying to God that they wouldn't notice him. It had been one of the most frightening experiences of his life and he could only imagine what spending hours in that uncertain and horrifying state must have done to her psychologically.

If he had known the Indian was alive, he would have tried to get to her even if it meant sacrificing his chance of leaving the farm. He wouldn't have left her like that. She had been one of them and they didn't leave people behind, but it happened and Daryl knew that Samara would eventually confront him on that. It was just in her nature. He was actually surprised at how mild she had been acting up until now. The Samara he remembered would have rebuked them on sight, spitefully and antagonistically, but this one kept her facade.

Samara lowered her eyes as she disappeared underneath the upper passage.

What now? Samara and Andrea and this new woman would join them in their survival, but even he knew it wouldn't be like before. Just from looking at Samara's mannerism he knew she and the group were back at square one, maybe even worse. And Andrea…while she seemed pleased to see them, she kept her distance.

Daryl sighed as he turned away from the balustrade and pushed aside the curtain he had hung up at the entrance of his cell. Sitting on his bed, he lifted the mattress on the upper corner where his pillow was and pulled two photos from underneath.

Hunched over himself, Daryl wondered over the fate of these pictures.

He had carried them for so long that keeping them with him was no longer necessary. Their owner was just a few cells away and would most likely be glad to have them back, but how could he explain the burn marks or the creasing? Or why he, of all people, held on to them after she presumably died?

Even Daryl didn't have an explanation.

Maybe he could just leave them in her cell anonymously. Daryl scoffed at the ridiculousness of it. Was he that scared of her reaction that he would resort to sneaking around? A part of him said yes as he knew the marshal would not resist in not knowing who the benefactor had been and if Samara was as good of a marshal as she thought she was, she would close in on him in no time. From there, many questions would be asked that he had no patience to answer.

Daryl leaned back until his spine hit the cold concrete wall. He tried to rub the pressure out of his eyes, but his mind refused to give him repose.

 _What the hell am I gonna do with these photos?_

* * *

It was midnight when Rick started his shift at the guard tower.

He was relieved to have the alone time to think. When he woke up this morning he hadn't expected anything out of the ordinary, just a typical bland day. How wrong he had been.

Samara was back. He still couldn't believe those words no matter how many times he uttered them. After so many months, for her to just appear out of nowhere had been a tremendous shock. Rick had mourned her and moved on, all in vain as everything had crashed down over his head in the span of a few seconds.

It was such a strange situation.

The door to the small room squeaked open and just the person he had been thinking of walked in. Rick rose to his feet as Samara looked over the cabin in curiosity. There was nothing sans two chairs and a wide panel with defunct monitors. It didn't take long until her attention shifted to him.

"We need to talk."

From her tone, the sheriff could sense something was amiss. "What's wrong?"

Samara walked over to the panel and leaned against it as Grimes sat back in his chair.

"I lied." She crossed her arms over her chest. "We didn't leave the town because of walkers. Granted, we would have ultimately, but that wasn't what drove us out."

"Who?"

"I don't know who they are, but I can tell you they're smart and they're dangerous. As in shoot you unarmed dangerous. They—"

"Wait." Rick held his hand up. "Start from the beginnin'."

Samara took a deep breath as she recounted her past experience with them.

"Andrea got sick with pneumonia deep into December, so Michonne and I had to often make runs to find medicine. One day we were trekking through the forest. It was the fastest way to get to a town so we didn't even think on it. As we neared a clearing, we came upon a military convoy." That had scared the hell out of them as they immediately flattened to the icy ground. "The soldiers looked like they were waiting for something. Soon, a car arrived and a man stepped out with a white flag. This guy told the soldiers that he had found their missing man, that he had gotten injured in some car accident. He wanted to take the soldiers to him. Stupidly, they lowered their guard and that was when the shooting began. People jumped out of the woods and shot all those soldiers down. At that point, both Michonne and I left. We didn't want to be spotted and share their fate."

Samara's eyes glinted ominously. "These people are the same ones that drove us out. There was this guy with a metal hand—"

Rick's brows shot up in surprise. "A metal hand?"

"Yeah, a crudely made prosthetic with a knife at the end. This metal-hand redneck was at that clearing. That's why the second time we saw him, we didn't even say a word no matter how much he tried to start a conversation. We just started shooting." The man hadn't even gotten past his first word when Samara pulled the trigger. The two women knew what kind of people they were dealing with and opted to use violence instead of words. "He was with three others; Michonne killed two of them and we ran. Metal-hand guy survived and brought a group at our hideaway. A fight started, but we managed to skip town with just a few injuries."

The sheriff leaned back in his chair as his fingers sunk into the leather padding on the armrests. From what Samara was saying, if these people ever found them it would end badly.

"This guy, is he alive?"

"I…I don't think so." The marshal's frowned in uncertainty as she scratched at the bandage on her ear. "Doesn't matter if he lived or not, the problem is his group. They're armed to the teeth with enough guns to supply a small army thanks to that convoy raid. And trust me, they have an army."

Rising to his feet, Rick paced the small cabin. "You have any idea where they could be?"

Samara shook her head. "First time we saw them was near Route 27 and the second time was in a town called Sunset Village. It could be anywhere between those two or in a 50km radius of them. I don't know and I wasn't about to waltz around and find them."

"Could they find this place?"

"Your guess is as good as mine. Look, I just wanted to tell you what we had to deal with. We were lucky that they underestimated us, otherwise we would have been royally fucked."

Rick stopped next to the panel and rested his hands on it with a sudden weariness. He could feel a headache forming right in the middle of his temple and knew it was going to be one of those troubling ones.

"And you said nothin' last night so there wouldn't be panic." His knowing eyes slid to hers.

"This is just a precaution, not an upcoming danger…I hope."

Rick understood and he was grateful. After so many months, this place had been the first real spark of happiness they had. They had found a home and worrying the others about a potential threat was not something he was about to do. He was the leader here, it was his responsibility. The others deserved rest.

"Thank you for tellin' me this."

"Sure." The corner of her lips quirked up for a second. "We have to work together now, don't we?"

Pause.

"I'm surprised to hear you say that." Considering that months ago Samara had been rather adamant in not helping anyone other than herself.

"Well Grimes, I'm not the same person I was back then. There's something you need to understand." The marshal uncrossed her arms and took a step closer to the sheriff. "I came here not because I wanted to, but because Andrea and Michonne did. Fact is, I could have gone my entire life not seeing either of you again."

"I see this ain't no warm reunion."

"Did you really think it would be?" She scoffed. "You know I stick to grudges. That is one thing that'll never change, but I'll tolerate you. We need a safe enough place until the cold passes and a prison is just that place."

"You ain't stayin'." The headache just turned to a drum roll.

"No, this is just temporary until we pull ourselves together. A few weeks are enough for us to rest and resupply."

"Where will you go?"

"That's for us to know." Her brows narrowed. "Are you alright with that?"

"Does it matter what I think?"

"No." That was her pointed answer. "Andrea and Michonne are my only concern. Grimes, I'm going to tell you something that you once told me—If you put them in danger with your choices, I won't be kind."

Rick felt himself bristle with anger. "You're not the only one who's changed, Samara, and threatenin' me ain't a smart thing on your part."

"I'm not threatening you, I'm just saying what will happen if you step over a certain line." The marshal will not allow Rick to endanger them with his compassion. "I'll work with you, I'll protect this place and your people and we'll pull our own weight around. In return, you will do the same with mine. No more and no less."

Behind the sternness, behind the animosity and bitterness, Rick could see the genuine affection for the two women. It hit him like an epiphany—

"You really care about them."

That was genuinely more surprising than seeing her alive. The marshal hadn't cared about anyone in the long run. Maybe himself, but eventually the woman had severed ties with him as well.

"I've lived with these two women for five months, Grimes. We protected each other, we kept each other sane and we kept each other alive over the course of a harsh winter." There was a fire in those green irises, one that he hadn't seen before. "I would die for them."

Rick felt like he was talking to a stranger. This wasn't the Samara he knew. That woman had been a loner, preferring the company of a four-legged animal to an actual human being and that was only half the time. The majority she spent on her own, doing what she wanted without repercussions. Whatever impression Andrea and this new women made on her, they had managed to do something that Rick had only fantasized.

"When you leave, I'll give you some supplies and ammo." This was the least he could do.

"Thank you."

Samara looked into the window beyond the guard tower. She wondered how he could spot anything in such a thick darkness. She wondered…

"Where did you bury him? T-Dog?"

"Over there." He pointed somewhere in the overgrown grass segment of the prison. "You can't miss it in daylight."

As the subject of T-Dog was brought up, the sheriff gave the marshal a reprimanding glower. "That was a petty thing you did."

The marshal averted her gaze. "I know and I'm sorry I had to use the man's memory like that, but that woman deserved it." She deserved a lot worse.

"It wasn't Carol's fault that T-Dog got bit." The man defended the older woman. "Ain't nobody to blame but Andrew for lettin' the walkers inside. It just happened."

Samara snorted cynically. She wasn't willing to believe that. That woman was a liability that couldn't save herself if she had a hundred chances to.

"I found Shane." The marshal announced suddenly, but taciturnly. She noticed the way the corner of his eye twitched and how the muscles in his arms tensed. "Why did you shoot him in the chest? You know what happens."

There was a pause as Rick leaned against the panel, assuming a cross-armed position similar to the marshal's. "I didn't. Carl did." That seemed to bewilder the Native as the news unexpectedly dropped on her. "That night, Shane and I fought and Carl saw him pull a gun on me. Next thing I heard was a gunshot and in that moment I thought I was dead, but instead it was Shane who fell." Rick took a deep breath, feeling the memory weight down on his shoulders. "Once he came back, I put him down."

"Damn, that's fucked up." Samara couldn't even imagine how Carl must have felt, having to shoot someone that had been in his life since he was born. "Your kid…Is he alright?"

Carl had changed drastically since killing Shane and the months on the road hadn't improved his disposition, seemingly cementing it in. Rick knew that his son had to grow up one day, especially in these hard times, but he just wished it hadn't had to be so traumatizing.

"As well as he can be, all things considered."

Blue eyes shifted back to the woman at his side.

"…How are you?" He asked gently. Samara had lost weight again.

"I'm just surviving."

"Everyone's survivin' these days." He rebuked her simple answer. "How are you really?"

The woman shifted uncomfortably before hardening. "Does it matter?"

Disappointment left him with a sour taste. Maybe he shouldn't have hoped for a real answer.

"It really is good seein' you again."

"Why? I wasn't exactly your favorite person before we parted ways."

"No, you weren't, but that's in the past." He had long forgiven all transgression the marshal had made during her brief stay with them. "What matters is that you're here now."

The woman made a sound like she didn't quite know what to believe, before stepping away from the panel.

"I'll see you in the morning."

"Samara..."

The Native paused.

"I'm sorry we left you and Andrea that night. I really am."

Like an ice sculpture she stood in front of the door with her hand on the knob. Samara said nothing as she walked out, just as silent as she came in.

Rick watched through the windows as the marshal walked back to the prison. Once he lost sight of her, he settled back in his chair. His mind was swimming with dark news and his headache was knocking on his forehead like a jackhammer.

This was going to be a long night.

* * *

 _ **Foot Note:**_ Well, what did you think? Emotional and in character enough for all parties?

I love writing, but sometimes I have trouble transmitting emotion on paper. You understand better seeing reactions with your naked eyes, but harder to imagine if you don't use the right words. That's why we get driven to tears or laughter by movies, but harder to empathize with books (at least in my experience). And I hope that I managed to write down the right sense of emotional backlash from the characters I focus on the most.


	7. Home Sweet Prison

Samara felt herself being shook awake. With a grunt, she rolled over and tried to appear as sound asleep as possible. She didn't want to get out of bed, it was too warm. The person trying to wake her up could go screw himself.

Just when she thought she was in the clear, Samara felt a painful pinch on her cheek.

"What the fu—!"

With eyed wide open, Samara searched for the bastard interrupting her bogus sleep. Once she found him, her face fell into a dull, scathing glower.

"You know, the point of having my own cell is not having to wake up to your mug every day."

Michonne snorted. "Trust me, the feeling is mutual. Now, get up."

"Why?"

"I need your help with something."

The sword-wielder looked down on the marshal cocooned in a mountain of blankets. It reminded Michonne of an extremely swaddled newborn.

"Uh…" Samara turned away like a spoiled brat. "How about no."

With narrowed eyes, Michonne grabbed hold of the blankets and pulled with all her strength. Samara rolled as she was deprived of her only means of warmth.

"Son of a—!" The marshal sat up with a rat-nest instead of hair, disheveled clothing and an unpleasant scowl. "What the hell is so important? It's fucking freezing!"

"Stop complaining and come on."

Michonne threw the blankets over the woman's head, making her swim in the fabrics. As soon as Samara managed to emerge from the sea of fluff, she sighed despondently. She could have been in such a nice, balmy meditative state right now, but no, Michonne just had to ruin it.

—If this became a regular thing, Samara will move to a different building without telling anyone.

With a groan, the marshal threw on a pair of jeans, her combat boots and a brightly colored fleece. As soon as she stepped out of her cell, Michonne leaned away from the wall and led her companion out of Cell Block C. As they made twists and turns throughout the prison, they ended up in an indoor gym. One half was composed out of outdated workout equipment and the other, separated by a chain fence, was a small basketball court.

"What are we doing here?"

"I need a partner at bench pressing."

 _You've got to be kidding me…_

Samara massaged the bridge of her nose as she reined in the urge to strangle her companion. "Michonne, tell me you didn't just wake me up at the crack of dawn for a fucking gym session?"

"I did and you weren't actually sleeping, you were just lying in bed with your eyes closed."

She groaned loudly so Michonne could hear her level of exasperation, but knowing the sword-wielder, she probably didn't care. Samara walked up to the head of the bench and took a hold of the metal pole of the barbell. Michonne settled on her back and began her exercise.

"Never pegged you for a gym freak."

"My off time after work." Michonne breathed heavily as she pushed on the barbell. "After so many court hearings, stubborn clients and general stress, this was the only way I could blow off steam so I took advantage of it whenever I could. Plus, I was alone. No boyfriend, no ex-husband, no kids, no worrying about unfinished homework or about uncooked dinners."

"I never liked going to the gym, I preferred to run in the open air." Every night she would make a run around the neighborhood, mostly to clean her mind about whatever new annoyance or horror she saw at work. "My husband had a punching bag at home and I sometimes used it when he didn't. It felt good, especially when I was angry." Samara looked at the numerous bags hung around the gym. "I might pick it up again."

"Have you told him?"

It seemed Michonne knew she had spoken with the sheriff last night.

"He's alright with it and he agreed to help us with supplies when the time comes."

The sword-wielder placed the barbell back on its hook and rose to a seated position. Sweat trickled down her skin as she caught her breath.

"We could have a life here, Samara."

The Native sighed as she rested her forearms on the bar, her head hung low. Michonne didn't need to tell her that, she knew the moment she saw this place. It was secure enough for them to live here for a very long time and they had all the necessary facilities to reside comfortably—beds, water, heat in winter, means to cook food, space to make a garden.

"I know, but I can't. There are too many skeletons here with them." Samara's eyes connected with Michonne's from underneath her lashes. "I made a mistake staying with them once. I'm not going to repeat it."

"Because you cared?"

Her eyes narrowed, her dark locks shadowing the dark circles. "Because they made me choose with my heart instead of my head."

"You never once tried to leave us."

Her implication was clear-cut—Samara was being contradictory. She was capable of living with people and caring for them, but now she was saying she couldn't when she had already proven that with her and Andrea.

"That's different. We never put ourselves in a situation where the only way out was by saving our own skin, even at the expense of others. The two of us are on the same wavelength most of the time and that's why every decision we make goes smoothly. I could never achieve that with Grimes and because of that, we argued a lot. I even attacked him once." Samara straightened out as she grimaced at the memories. "In the long run, I can't work with him. Not until he pulls his head out of his ass and sees the broader picture."

"And what is the broader picture?"

Samara's fingers gripped the barbell's pole with white knuckles.

"You kill, you live."

Michonne huffed. "From what I understood from the Asian, he already knows that."

"Because he killed a convict? Big fucking deal. Who wouldn't kill them just on basic principle?"

"What is it really about, Samara?" Michonne was starting to get tired of the woman's perpetual skirting around the subject. She wanted an actual motive, not a shallow one.

Samara paused.

"I have my reasons." The marshal's eyes tingled with the feeling of bloodshot, a product of too many restless nights, but she was also tired of this discussion. Samara had made her point; she was going to leave with or without her companions.

Michonne settled back on the bench and returned to her exercise. With reluctance, Samara stepped back into her place as the woman's spotter.

"Look Michonne, if you want to stay behind when the time comes, then stay." Samara felt her lips itching to contort into a grimace. That was the worst case scenario, but one she was willing to bear through. She wasn't about to push them into doing what she wanted despite her wishes. Samara might not have had any reservations with Grimes, but she couldn't do it to Andrea and Michonne. "It's not like I'm holding a gun to your head."

"You gave us an ultimatum."

"That's hardly a threat." Even Michonne knew her actual threats involved more bodily harm than anything. "I'm not going to hold it against you. I know that as long as you and Andrea have each other, you'll be alright."

"And what about you?"

"I'll live."

Samara felt the urge to hide her face as deep coffee eyes pinned her on the spot. The marshal could almost feel them probing her mind for answers. Every time Michonne did this, Samara swore she felt baby spiders crawling all over the sensitive tissue of her brain.

—Samara often wondered why Michonne hadn't chosen a profession in psychology rather than law.

"It's a long and empty stretch of road, Samara." Michonne's words sounded as ominous as an approaching storm. "You know as well as I do what isolation does."

Samara swallowed thickly. "I'll be _fine_."

Their conversation was put on hold as the doors opened and Tyreese walked in. Both women watched him intently as they stood as still as possible. It took the man a few steps in to notice the other occupants and he minutely jumped out of his skin with a curse on the tip of his tongue.

To Samara's dim surprise, he just chuckled it off. "Morning. Sorry about that, I'm usually the only one up so early."

"You can thank her for that." Samara rudely tipped her head towards her heavy-lifting companion. "Some of us are actual human beings with regular sleeping hours."

Michonne scoffed knowing that Samara was full of shit. Neither of them have had regular sleeping hours since the world went down the drain.

"Hey…" The man approached them with a friendly smile making the wariness settle straight into their bones. They've had bad encounters with smiling people before—metal-hand guy—and some of those reactions became reflex. "We didn't start on the right foot yesterday and I'm sorry I shot at you."

Samara and Michonne exchanged a brief look. While apologizing for yesterday's Wild West shootout was something admirable, they just didn't understand why. If he was expecting them to apologize then he was shit out of luck. As far as Samara saw it, their actions had been justifiable.

"We started it, but at least we didn't hit anything vital."

Samara eyed Michonne disapprovingly, but the woman ignored her.

"Yeah, I'm thankful for that." Tyreese chuckled as he gently massaged the middle of his chest. "I actually wanted to leave the vest at the prison. I'm glad my sister managed to convince me to wear it."

"It would have been a loss for the group otherwise."

That tipped Samara off that Michonne was up to something. The sword-wielder didn't talk unless she had something to contribute to the discussion or because there was something that piqued her interest. She didn't make flighty conversation for the sake of it.

"How's the bruise?" Michonne wiped the sweat off her brow, not breaking eye contact with the man.

"Still hurts and I have trouble breathing at times, but I was lucky it was only that."

"You shouldn't strain yourself so early." Samara leaned against the barbell's rounded weights, scrutinizing the man. "Wait at least a few days before using the gym. Trust me, I've had my experiences with vests. Don't take it lightly."

"Don't worry, I just wanted to stretch my legs a bit."

Samara could see him scrutinize them in return, but between Michonne's stone wall and Samara's pokerface, there was nothing for him to see.

"Well, I'll leave you two ladies to it." He smiled one last time before walking away.

 _Lady…,_ Samara snorted as she tried to assimilate the word with her person.

Michonne's eyes followed Tyreese as he began a light exercise consisted of stretching. There was something about him that caught her attention.

Someone cleared their throat.

Michonne turned her head upwards and caught Samara's gaze. While anyone else would see passivity, the sword-wielder knew better. There was a cheeky slyness hiding behind those yellow-green irises.

"Is there something that caught your eye, Michonne?" Samara asked 'oh so innocently'.

The other woman rolled her eyes irreverently. There was nothing for the Native to saunter over.

"He seems familiar somehow. Like I've seen him before, but I just can't place it where."

The answer stood at the tip of her tongue, but for the life of her she couldn't voice it. Michonne racked her brain as she returned to her exercise, ignoring Samara's misplaced amusement.

* * *

Samara watched from behind dark lenses as a few walkers shuffled near the fence. She, Michonne, Andrea and Rick were walking the walkway between the prison's chain walls.

"We do a fence checkup every mornin' and one just before nightfall. Get rid of the stragglers and fix the fence were it might have loose wires or gaps."

After breakfast, Rick had taken it upon himself to show them around which was a welcome break as the others kept the three women under their careful watch as if disappearing at any moment. Dale even sat with them to eat.

"Do you leave them or move them somewhere else?" Andrea asked as she eyed a decomposing walker.

"Every few days we gather them up and burn 'em away from the prison. There's a spot in the forest we use. I'll show you on the next run. Everybody has a job here, no exceptions."

"I'm fine with that as long as you don't make me do household chores. I sure as hell ain't doin' that."

Samara agreed. This was not the farm and neither of the women will resign themselves to being domestic cats. They weren't capable of being that anymore.

"Andrea's a great sniper." Samara said as she lightly bumped the blonde's shoulder, a smirk on her face. "I've seen her kill targets from 1500 meters. She's of much more use to you up there."

Up there being the guard tower.

"Then you're welcome to it." Rick wouldn't say no to the offer. He knew that they would be better off on the forefront, brandishing weapons than doing anything else. From Glenn's words, the three women had heavily attacked them at the farm and at that time, he hadn't been sure they would've gotten out of it alive if their identities hadn't been revealed in time.

"What else is there?"

"Supply runs mostly, other than that we don't leave the prison. Lori, Beth and Carol take care of the food, clothes and inventory. Hershel is our medic and since the loss of his leg there ain't much he can do. Everyone else takes turns in the guard tower and on the fences, and volunteers go on runs."

"Have you had any problems except for the inmate that tried to kill you all?" Michonne asked as she speared her katana through the fence, putting down the walker rattling it.

"No." Rick watched entranced by the ease and fluidity in which Michonne wielded her katana. "We sealed off the other blocks and we don't go near them. The main area and cell blocks C and B are the only ones we use."

"So there _are_ walkers here?"

"Yeah, but unless you open those doors there ain't no way for them to get out. Besides, we lock the cell block we live in at night just to be sure."

"Have you tried cleaning up the other blocks?" Andrea asked, disturbed by this news. She hadn't liked living with walkers back at the farm and she wasn't changing her outlook now.

"No and we ain't gonna." He said resolutely. "I'm not riskin' losin' anyone else."

After losing T-Dog, Grimes must have tightened the knot on his group. He most likely didn't want any more unnecessary risks.

"The generators, do you use them often?" Last night, Grimes had turned it on for them, but during the night Samara had had to use extra layers of clothes to keep warm.

"Not anymore. We used to when the cold got near zero degrees, but since winter is almost over we only use them to shower and even then it has to be short. Those things need diesel fuel and constant maintenance to work." Rick sighed as he looked over the withered fields. "I'll be glad when Georgia returns to its usually warm state."

"I still can't believe a few people managed to secure this place." Michonne said as she looked over the prison. It seemed far too big for just a handful of people to conquer it.

"Purpose and a good deal of desperation helped." The sheriff placed his hands on his hips as he scrutinized the women. "If you want, you can start watch duty today. Maggie and Tyreese are out for a few days until they recuperate. You can take their shifts."

"I'll take the tower." Andrea proclaimed. She wanted to stay as close to the prison as possible.

"And I'll run the fences tonight." Samara's eyes landed on something that halted her advance.

—There was a small wooden cross rising out of the ground.

The marshal felt her stomach coil as she knew who was buried there. Her steps took her in that direction before she even realized it.

The air was so quiet that she could hear her lungs taking in oxygen. There wasn't even the slightest breeze in the air, just her own thoughts racing around her head and the sound of her own heart smoothly drumming against her chest.

"Hey, T-Dog. I'm back."

Samara smiled for a second before she lowered herself to a crouch, pushing the sunglasses over her forehead. This was depressing. Again, she found herself in front of a grave. Again, she had to salute another dead comrade.

"Sorry you had to die. I actually liked you, you were a nice guy and you didn't swallow my bullshit. You helped me with Alistair and I'll always appreciate that."

That morning burying her furry companion had given her a whole new level of respect for him. After all, Alistair had just been a dog. Not many would have bothered, but T-Dog did for her sake.

Samara leaned forward as she noticed etchings in the simplistic, wooden cross.

"Theodore Douglas…So, that's your name." Samara smiled lightly. "It's funny, I never once asked you for it. You were always just T-Dog. It seemed enough to know at the time."

Pulling off her gloves, russet fingers felt the earth crumble and part underneath her fingers. The ground was cold as she cradled and crushed it in her palm.

"I don't know anything about you really, other than that you were religious." She looked at the barren cross devoid of anything but a name. "Did you have a wife, a girlfriend, kids? Were you alone? Did you help old grannies cross the street?"

There was such a deafening silence surrounding her. Not even the people walking the grounds of the prison could be heard. Such a profound stillness always had an impact on her person; too much of it had her mind wandering dangerous territories.

"Fuck, I hate graves. I never did know what to do or what to say." She let the dirt slip between her fingers. "I don't know any of your Christian prayers and I forgotten mine a long time ago, so it's a bit of an awkward situation."

Samara scratched the back of her head in awkwardness. This was the part where people said something emotional or inspiring about the deceased, but for the life of her she couldn't think of anything.

"You're probably laughing your ass off at seeing me mumble my way into a last goodbye. I was never really good at goodbyes. Too emotional." The Native sighed as she pulled on a weed. "Funny that I could talk about a dog, but can't find one single word for a human. Maybe that's irony."

Olive eyes settled back on the cross—the symbol of their God. "Did you find Heaven? Are you there, looking down on us? Maybe you already returned to the wheel of life, reborn as another being." The dark hues underneath her eyes expanded as Samara's thoughts took a down spiral. "Or maybe there's nothing after death, just an overwhelming nothingness with no speck of consciousness. Like a drop of water in an ocean."

Samara groaned as she cleared her head of such morbid thoughts. "I'm deviating. Sorry, I sometimes do that when I'm thinking of the past. It's an annoying habit I picked up in the recent year."

The marshal rose to her feet. It was time she returned to her duties and sitting around a grave was not going to help achieve them.

"I hope you found peace, T-Dog. It's the least we deserve after all of this. Goodbye."

* * *

After dinner, Samara made do of her promise and walked the fence with, surprisingly, the two former inmates.

She kept them in sight as they took the lead. The world might have changed, but Samara knew that old habits die hard and that was most apparent with convicts. They never changed, getting sent right back in the same shithole they crawled out of.

The skinny one, Axel if she remembered correctly, kept sneaking glances at her. Not at her figure or her face, but at her coat.

"What?" She asked once she caught him in the act. If he had a problem with her, he should speak up.

The man's eyes skirted undecided. Finally, Axel gathered enough courage to open his mouth. "You know that's a Union coat of arms, right?"

"Yeah, I know. The plaque at the museum I took this from said so itself."

"Why wear it?" His voice lowered to a whisper. "Doesn't it offend your friend with the dreads?"

Samara paused. _People still think about that?_

"I'm wearing it because it keeps me warm. What the hell does it matter? In case you haven't noticed, slavery hasn't been around for almost 150 years. These are different times with completely new problems that have nothing to do with something that happened over a century ago."

 _Hell, I'm not even white to begin with._

"Yeah, but…" His gaze traveled to his friend who just put down a walker with a crowbar.

Samara understood. He probably thought she was offending him with her display of a Confederate symbol.

"Hey, you have a problem with my coat?"

"No." Oscar didn't even look at her as he continued in his job.

"Problem solved." Now that she had a dialogue opened, she might as well learn a few things. "So, what were you two in for?"

"Breakin' and enterin'."

"Seriously?" Samara looked bewildered at Oscar. For a guy that broad shouldered, it seemed a petty crime.

"Was I supposed to be in for murder?"

"More like assault. You look the type."

He huffed in distaste. "And you're an expert on this?"

"I was a Deputy Marshal. I think I know a thing or two."

Oscar's lips contorted as he shook his head in displeasure. "Just what we need, another cop."

Samara couldn't help herself from smirking. Just the response she wanted.

"What about you?"

"Armed robbery, but the police fucked me over on it!" Axel frowned as he stabbed a walker in the forehead with a makeshift spear. "They pinned my brother's gun on me, but the only thing I used was a water pistol."

The marshal shook her head in mild incredulity. "It still amazes me how people can be that dumb…"

"I know, right?" Axel retrieved his spear as he ranted on the indignities of higher authority. "The cops were—"

"I'm talking about you, dipshit." _A water gun…_ Who still did that?

Axel withdrew from her as if burned. "No need for name callin'..."

The woman approached him with a hawkish glower that had Axel back away in defense. He's seen that look before in dozens of other inmates and was smart enough to stay away.

"What use do you have here other than manpower?" She scrutinized his scrawniness unimpressed. "Or at least one and a half."

"We take care of the generators and we walk along the fences." Oscar answered as he approached, the tension in the air announcing impending danger.

"Seems a waste of food. I would have shot you along with the rest."

"I bet you would have." He scowled at her disdainfully. "I recognize your type."

She smirked derisively. "Oh?"

"Where I grew up, there were only two types of cops: the ones that didn't care if a ghetto kid got shot and the bad ones—the ones that made up their own rules. You're the type that probably broke a few laws to get your way, got in a lot of shit with your attitude, maybe even suspended at one point. Any of that sound familiar?" She was an open book in his mind. "I bet you've even beat up people to have 'em talk."

Samara laughed lowly as she twirled her machete. "I might have bended the law at times, but I never outright broke it. I hated the technicalities the justice system had so I stepped on a few toes to get my way." The Marshal job hadn't exactly been her favorite and she had been far from the perfect employee, but she tried to get the best results even if the means had been questionable. "And I only 'lightly' tapped detainees on the way to custody and that happened only when they gave me trouble, which was pretty much every single time. You're kind is dumb by nature."

"My kind?" Oscar grimaced as if he tasted a rotten flavor in his mouth. "Marshal, I don't have a kind. If I was anythin' like Tomas or Andrew, I wouldn't be standin' here today. I would be _dead_." He had seen what Rick was capable of and he was sure the man would have done the same to him if he had had posed a threat. "I've lost people out there because I was inside here, waitin' for help that never came. My wife, my children…they're dead while I'm still alive. I paid for my mistakes."

The man spread his arms to the side, his chest unguarded. "You wanna shoot me? Just try it."

A challenge.

"Hey, now!" Axel stepped between them as he noticed the woman's gloved fingers graze the handle of her gun. "Let's not get worked up. We're on the same side here."

The marshal's eyes narrowed sharply. "I've never once been on the same side as a convict and I'm not about to start now, not even at the end of the world."

Samara walked past Oscar, all the while glaring at him with as much force as possible. He never wavered, though.

Axel joined Oscar once the marshal distanced herself, continuing to destroy walkers with newfound zeal.

"That's one woman I don't wanna piss off." Axel watched uncertainly as Samara thrust her machete deep into a walker's open mouth.

Oscar was of the opposite as he couldn't care less of the woman's shitty disposition. He's seen far too many like her, the only difference here being the gender. "That there, that's what my dad used to call a 'dragon lady'."

Axel looked confused.

"A ball-buster."

"Oh."

* * *

As soon as everyone settled in for the night, Samara slipped away to the gym. The need to discharge her energy was urgent and what better way than to pick up a favorite pastime.

Wrapping up her knuckles tight and safe with cloth, Samara unzipped her tracksuit jacket and remained in a dark T-Shirt, grey sweatpants and sneakers.

The first punch had her wince. She hadn't been in a fistfight in quite some time, so hitting a 100lb bag was a painful revelation. Settling back in her once established stance, Samara could feel the rhythm slowly return to her and, soon, she was hitting the bag with enthusiasm.

Samara was so engrossed in her activity that she didn't hear the door open nor the uncertain steps following.

"Samara?"

The women in question froze, the punching bag swaying from the force used. With a hand she stopped the bag from striking her in the face and looked behind her, hoping that it wasn't the person she thought it was.

Carol stood just a mere distance away, worry and hesitation written all over her face. Samara could practically smell the anxiety that poured out of her like vapor.

"Can we talk?"

Samara's eyes narrowed. The woman was treading on dangerous territory here.

"I don't think that's a good idea."

Carol sighed as she swallowed thickly, summoning up the courage to confront her mistakes. "Samara, I really am sorry for what happened back then. It wasn't my intention to leave you."

"No, but you didn't do shit about it." Samara resumed her activity, her hits coming out more aggressive. The marshal was sitting on thin ice right now. One impulse and it would shatter, breaking her well composed mask.

—And Samara didn't want to know what she'll do when that happened.

Carol took a step closer. She wanted this matter settled between them. She wanted Samara to understand her side of the story.

"There's was nothing I could do—"

Samara hit the bag one more time before turning and glaring at the older woman.

"What you could have done was run into the forest like I told you, but no, you just had to turn hysteric and run right into a group of walkers!" Samara's voice rose with each word, never quite breaking into a shout. "And, stupid as I was, followed you instead of just reaching the forest."

"My daughter died there, Samara. I never wanted to step in that forest again even if it meant saving my life."

"You are one dumb bitch then." The marshal scoffed spitefully. "You not only endangered your life, but mine also!"

"I didn't ask you to follow me!"

"No you didn't, but you were so weak and pathetic that I just couldn't leave you to be eaten. If I'd known what would happen, I would've left you without a second thought!"

Samara approached Carol, fury in her eyes and fingers clenched into tight fists. She was so close to breaking, but tightly restrained herself. _Not yet._

Carol took a step back before steeling herself and facing the angry Native. It took all her courage not to flinch when Samara stopped a breath away, her height towering over hers.

"Do you know what it's like laying under two walkers for almost an entire day?" Her voice trembled with faint traces of terror and rage as her eyes burned with hellfire. "Not being able to move or even blink in fear that they would realize you were there among them? Praying to whatever god was out there to save you and get no answer in return?"

Carol backed up into the wall as Samara caged her in with her arms on either side of her shoulders.

"Every second of every minute I thought it would be my last. Do you know what that does to someone?" Olive eyes searched Carol's for the answers she couldn't voice. "There were moments were I just wanted it to be over. For the waiting to stop and finally let the walkers know where I was just to end that horrifying feeling."

There were no words that could describe what she had been through. It had scarred her deeply, enough to leave a long lasting mark on her soul.

Samara punched the wall next to Carol, just inches away from the side of her temple. The older woman actually felt the impact as the force of it brushed the strands of her short hair.

"I couldn't sleep for weeks and every time I tried, I was right back on that field!" Teeth bared and eyes wide, Samara looked _terrifying_. Like a wraith ready to devour its next unfortunate soul. "There were times where I would scream myself awake. Scream and scream until my throat bled."

Not to mention the tears. There were times where she would start sobbing and both her companions had witnessed it to her mortification. Samara hated showing weakness even in front of two people she considered friends.

Russet fingers touched Carol's cheek, but it was far from gentle. Her nails dug in the soft skin startling the older woman.

"The worst part was that while I was pissing myself in fear, you were all together and on your _merry_ way. You left me behind without even coming back to check."

"We had no choice!" Carol yelled as she pushed Samara's hand away.

"There's always a choice!"

Pushing away from the wall, the older woman backed away the younger, a frenzy in her eyes. "How could we have known you were alive?! I saw you go down. Daryl saw you go down and you didn't get back up again. We didn't know if the walkers had left or were still at the farm. We had no choice but to leave!"

"Fuck that." Samara laughed without a drop of amusement. "Daryl and I, we searched for your daughter for a month. We did the leg work while you sat around camp, twiddling your thumbs in concern. We might not have found her alive, but we tried. I know my reasons hadn't been exactly noble, but when I needed that favor returned, you turned your back on me. I guess I just wasn't important enough to waste time on."

She retreated from Carol, feeling burned out and wired up at the same time. The Native wanted this woman away from her, away from longer rising up her heckles. Everything was being stirred up again and Samara felt her insides shrivel into raisins.

Carol rubbed her cool temple as she attempted to calm her frazzled nerves. She hadn't screamed like that in a while, but she was troubled by the marshal's words. While she still retained the thought that there was nothing more she could have done at that time, she still felt guilty.

"…If it'll make you feel better, you can hit me."

Samara turned with shrewd eyes.

"Punch me. Beat me." Carol shrugged hopelessly. If this would make them even then she'll brave it. "I know you want to."

Samara snorted condescendingly. "What good would that do? You're already used to it. One more bruise probably won't matter."

Andrea had told her stories about Carol and her piece of shit husband. How he used to treat her like the dirt at the bottom of his soles. Women that came from abused households were so used to awful treatment that it ingrained itself into their beings like a second skin. A very thick skin.

"No, I want you to feel responsible." Samara hissed like a reptile, each word a poisonous drop. "I want you to go to sleep every night putting yourself in my shoes just for that one instance. To get a taste of the horror." The marshal was so close now that their breaths mingled. Olive green clashed against silver blue. "I want you to feel just as pathetic and weak as when you saw Sophia _dearest_ walk out of that barn."

The older woman made a strangled noise deep in her throat as she shut her eyes tight.

"That is worse punishment than a fist ever could do to you." Samara gave the woman one last look before turning away to her heavy bag. This discussion was over. "I advise you not to speak to me again. As far as I'm concerned, you don't exist. I risked my life for you once; I'm not going to do it again."

Samara settled back into her stance.

"Go kill yourself for all I care."

The silence after had been deafening. Samara did not grace the other woman with another look nor did she attempt to hear her. Samara could never trust the woman again, not after what she had done and as such, was a non-entity in her mind. They were quits.

The door to the gym opened and closed with a sad, metallic wail and Samara began hitting the bag furiously as she was left alone once more. With each punch, she could feel a sting on her knuckles. The impact jarring her forearms right up to her shoulders.

This was good. Pain kept her focused and right now she was standing at the edge of the precipice. She needed an anchor to keep her from falling in.

Samara choked down a yell. She bit her lip as her punches became more and more frantic.

 _Stupid, stupid bitch! Weak, pitiful, laughable excuse of a woman!_

With one last hit, Samara let out a short livid scream, leaving the bag to sway heavily from side to side.

With shallow, quick breaths, Samara paced back and forth with her fingers flexing erratically. There were spots of crimson on the wrappings and she knew the skin on her knuckles was cracked from too much brute force. There was a buzzing sound circling around her ears. The sound of static overshadowed her turbulent thoughts and dropped her into a pool of numbness.

Samara finally stopped moving and exhaled loudly. With shaky hands, she touched the floor as she lowered her body and rested there with her head between her knees.

 _In and out._

Samara centered herself as she found her bearings. Opening her eyes, she stared into her white gauzed hands and flexed them. The pain from the fabric grinding against her open wounds didn't bother her that much as she felt her whole being centered once again. The whistle in her ears dimmed until the world finally came back to normal.

 _It's over…It's finally over._

No longer could Samara feel that pressing urge for vengeance. She was finally free of that soul-sucking vortex that had plagued her for so many months.

 _Now…_

Now, she could move forward and forget this entire affair ever happened.

* * *

 _ **Foot Note:**_ No Daryl this chapter, but don't worry he'll return in the next. And Samara and he are gonna have some talks.

So, Samara finally confronted Carol. I know some of you probably wanted for Sam to kick the shit out of her, but it didn't seem right and I was never gonna have her do that. Samara is harsh person, but she knows how to pace herself. Besides, after all you've read, you probably know that the marshal's bark is worse than her bite.


	8. Talk To Me

_**Author's Note:**_ I have finally seen the 4th season of TWD (I did say I stopped watching after the 3rd-I can't tell you why, I just lost interest after a while, but it's back now). Huh…Can't say I was overly excited. From the way I see it, it could have been filmed in just half a season, no need for dragging it out like that. I hope the 5th is better.

On a second note, that scene with Rick and that old bandit was awesome! Not to mention the end scene! Sheriff finally grew some 'rough and tumble' cojones! I'm so proud. *sniff, sniff*

To **Guest** with the long review on Ch 7- Good, good. Let the hate flow through you (Darth Sidious creepy smile). All joking aside, I can understand your frustration. Samara is that kind of bastardly person. Black and white is more visible now for her at the end than before in society. I'm not apologizing for her or defending her because Pazuzu knows, she's a difficult lady, but it was to be expected. This is the same person that hated Daryl and branded him a good for nothing redneck just by seeing him once (and it took her a long time to realize he wasn't like the people she arrested). She even told Rick back at the farm that she has a special kind of hatred for rednecks and people on the opposite side of the law. She's a marshal who dealt with criminals on a daily basis, so she's created quite a narrow-minded perception of them. Sam admitted freely that she hadn't been that great of a marshal and having a badge didn't mean she actually enjoyed her job. I remember in 'Ring of Fire', writing her thoughts that she would have felt happier if she kept on being a pilot. We don't all get to have our perfect job and Samara got stuck doing something she didn't exceptionally like, but it was a living.

Oscar and Axel…I seriously overlooked them since they don't really matter much to me as characters. I've always seen them as extras. I guess having an outside view (a reader's) is actually beneficial. This is the kind of constructive criticism I really like. Thanks again, Guest, and let us pray to her Gods that Samara sees the goodness in those two, and I hope her crotchety self hadn't put you off from reading further.

* * *

Daryl took a drag out of his cigarette as he walked the prison grounds. It was early enough in the morning that the watch guard hadn't changed. A light, damp fog settled in the late of night and remained in a state of suspension creating an unnatural atmosphere.

The hunter blew out small rings of grey smoke as his steps echoed across the pavement. Here and there were splatters of crusted ruby blood courtesy of Andrew and his insane plan. Even thinking of him had Daryl's blood boil with seething anger. Because of that son of a bitch they lost T-Dog and if it hadn't been for his sacrifice, they would have counted Carol among their dead as well.

Daryl wished he could have gotten his hands on that bastard before Andrea did. He would have made his death last just a little bit longer.

 _Speakin' of Andrea…_

Four days had passed since the two lost women returned. They had quickly assimilated into the group's daily routines, but treated everyone with a discreet aloofness. Andrea was the one more open of the three while Samara kept a wall around her and the other woman, Michonne, couldn't seem to be bothered.

Daryl had watched them, specifically the sword-wielder. He had no idea who she was, but he got the impression that he wouldn't want to find himself on the sharp end of her blade. The woman was quiet, preferring to stick to her duties and the gym and from Daryl's observations, Samara preferred the sword-wielder's company. They were often seen conversing as they walked the fences or worked in the gym. Samara, at times even genuinely smiled, something she hadn't been prone to do before.

The mention of the Indian reminded him that her photos were still in his possession. Daryl still hadn't figured out a way to pass them over. His idea with just dropping them in her cell was becoming more appealing with each day.

Twack!

Daryl spat his cigarette and raised his crossbow with precise movements. That sound came from just around the corner and it sounded similar to his arrows.

Gluing himself to the wall, the hunter heard another thud, followed by an explicit obscenity.

He knew that voice.

Rounding up the corner, he ended up in the prison's back yard. It wasn't too big, mainly made out of a small baseball field without grass and a chain fence enclosing half of the area. The first thing that he saw was a couple of arrows haphazardly embedded into the ground. The target, an unmoving walker tied to one of the fence's poles, seemed to be completely unharmed. The Indian was in the center of the baseball field with a compound bow tightly clenched between her fingers. She seemed to be in a foul mood as she glowered at the walker, muttering curses underneath her breath.

A sense of bewilderment assaulted the hunter as he stared at the compound bow. Since when did she use anything other than guns or a machete?

Samara drew on the bow string and Daryl immediately saw the faults. No surprise she hadn't been able to hit the target.

"I thought you Indians knew how to use bows."

Startled, the Indian's eyes flashed his way, but soon settled into a light grimace. "We can also talk to animals and summon rain by dancing."

The arrow flew and missed the walker's shoulder by a mere inch. Samara deflated as she had been aiming for its forehead.

Massaging her creased brow, the Indian lowered her bow and placed a hand on her hip, staring Daryl down. "So, you can talk, and here I thought you lost that particular skill. Is there something you want, Dixon?"

"I was patrollin'."

"Don't let me stop you."

Daryl scoffed at her dismissive brush and he would've complied with her wishes, but something stopped him. The photos at his back pocket were becoming heavier with each step, proving to be a burden on his conscious.

He stared back at the woman who was doing her best to ignore his presence. What better place to get rid of them than now? Damn the fact that she will know. The Indian was bound to realize it on her own sooner or later if he sneaked around.

"You're holdin' it wrong."

Samara scrutinized him from the corner of her eye. "Isn't your specialty crossbows?"

"Don't mean I've never used a compound before."

She tsked as she glared. "From what I remember, you're not really good at helping others when they need it."

Daryl's fingers clenched over the strap of his weapon. He knew what she was referring to and he was prepared to listen through the yells and accusations, but Samara did neither. She simply went back to her practice.

—Was she expecting him to apologize?

With a sigh, the hunter conceded. If it got her to stop sulking, he'll bite the bullet this one time.

"Samara, what happened back then—"

"I swear, if you say you're sorry, I'm going to punch you in the face." The Indian lowered her bow as she spat, her body shivering from suppressed anger. "I've had enough of people apologizing. I really don't care how many times you say you're sorry, fact is they won't change what happened and you're just pissing me off worse by bringing it up all the time. I could have easily started a witch hunt against all of you, but I chose not to. Accusing you won't make me forget that night and despite making me feel better, it won't help in the long run."

She took a mouthful of air as her rant left her breathless.

"I'm trying to put it behind me and I can't do that if you keep reminding me of it." This time, the words came out in a calm manner.

 _Let bygones be bygones, huh?_

As unexpected as it was, Daryl wasn't about to refuse it. If this whole matter was settled in her mind then he wasn't about to keep the flames still burning. Daryl looked at her more closely as he pondered on the strange turn this whole affair took. He had expected one hell of a tornado, not calm waters. He was starting to discover a whole lot of changes in her and he couldn't say he disliked them. If they made her more amicable, he was all for it.

"Come here."

"Why?"

"Just come here."

Samara frowned as she appeared uncertain of his intentions, but there was nothing wicked on his mind. He just wanted to give her back what was hers.

Cautiously, the Indian approached, leaving an arm-length distance between them. Her fingers were still tightly clenched around the end of an arrow and he was was sure it was meant for him if he tried anything _funny_.

"Hold out your hand."

Now she looked downright distrusting.

"I ain't gonna do nothin'." He swore he hated it when she made it so damn difficult. "If I do, you can stab me with that arrow you're holdin' on so tight."

Samara swallowed thickly as she tried to see past his words. There was no hidden motive to be found, though, and the Indian reluctantly raised her hand, palm-side up.

With a deep breath, Daryl slowly took out the photos and placed them in her open hand.

Samara froze solid as she realized what they were. Her hand began shaking as she rapidly blinked away the mist in her eyes. With wide, tormented eyes she searched Daryl's face for an answer, but he couldn't offer any.

With a crunch of dust, Daryl left the woman to her silence. There was nothing he could say at the moment. Not to that crestfallen expression she was making like he just shot her damn dog. As Daryl rounded up on the corner, he peeked behind him once. Just one glance was enough for him to know her state of mind.

Samara was sitting on the ground, clutching those photos with her hand covering her mouth. She had on the same wide-eyed stare, but this time he could see a glistening tear roll down her cheek.

Daryl raked a hand through his hair, disheveling it. He felt his entire balance thrown off again as he kept seeing that tear in his mind. Even trying to light up a cigarette didn't help his frazzled mind and he threw the useless thing with a growl.

It hadn't been his intention to upset her, but at least now he was relieved of those damned pictures.

—He no longer had to obsess over them anymore.

But now, he had to prepare himself mentally for the barrage of questions heading his way once she regained her bearings and he was not looking forward to that.

* * *

At noon, Samara was outside on the withered fields with Hershel and Rick, helping them establish perimeters for the garden.

"Soil is still too harsh to dig through." Hershel said as he crouched on the ground, his hand clutching a handful of earth. "We're gonna have to wait another few weeks before we can begin. We're gonna need compost. Lots of it. We don't have any animals and we can't use our own since it could contain pathogens that could be passed on to us."

Samara was barely listening. Her mind was still on the photos that were currently resting in her coat pocket with her fingers grazing over them. After so many months, they just appeared back into her life and the worst part was that she barely felt anything. As much as she tried, she couldn't project any higher state of feeling other than heartbreak and that scared her. She knew she felt a certain degree of indifference, but Samara didn't think it extended to her thoughts on her lost family. They should have moved her beyond just a silent tear since those photos represented the last vestiges of her past.

Maybe it was the prolonged exposure without them that had anesthetized her to their effect, but Samara hoped that with time she would regain the affection she once held for them.

 _I hope…_

The older man rose to his feet with Rick's help and wiped the dust off his hands. "Normally, I made compost out of my animals' manure and leftover scraps of food, but we can't spare the food so we're gonna have to find already made compost at stores."

"Works for me. We still have to go out and find seeds. You just write a list with everythin' you need here and we'll get it."

"Have you thought about my idea?"

"Catchin' deer? Yeah, I have." Rick placed his hands on his hips in a familiar pose that would have made Samara smile if it weren't for the dismal thoughts. "I think we should do it. Daryl's already agreed to it."

 _Daryl…_

The man who handed her her photos.

Samara still hadn't even begun to breach the reasons as to why and, right now, she didn't have the mental strength for it.

"What do you need deer for?" The marshal asked as she derailed her thoughts from him. She needed a quiet place to think, not here with these two men.

"So we can breed them." Rick answered. "The canned food will run out one day, we need to think ahead."

"You actually think you'll be here that long?"

"I like to think so. And if we do, it's better to be prepared. Eventually we're gonna scavenge the entire area near us and we can't keep going on far-away supply runs if that happens. I wanna minimize our exposure as much as possible."

"When's the next run?"

"In a week or so."

"Why not now?"

"We make runs only once a week. Two if it's urgent, and never in the same place twice at least for two weeks. Right now, we have everythin' we need. There's no rush."

Samara was taken back. That was actually smart of him.

"We'll have a meetin' tonight to see who goes. You're welcome to join."

She'll volunteer. Samara wasn't used to being stationary and it was beginning to aggravate her. Even at the farm, Samara ventured out into the forest on a daily basis and if she wasn't there then she was on the road scavenging.

"Who usually goes?"

"Daryl leads the scavengin' groups. He's best suited out there."

The marshal almost winced. Perhaps, she might rethink going.

* * *

Samara let the back of her head hit the wall as she lay across the width of her bed with one knee bent while the other was sprawled over the edge. With a sigh, she let her hat fall over her face and swore that if she looked at those pictures any longer, she'll burn two tiny holes right through them.

 _Why did he do it?_

It was infuriating because there were so many reasons, but neither one of them seemed right. They were just her thoughts. If she wanted to know, she'll have to hear it from the horse's mouth, but she had her reservations.

Light steps echoed across her threshold.

"Hey, can I borrow some of your clothes?" Samara heard Andrea walk over the length of her small cell and rummage through her garments. "I put mine to wash and I don't have any other thick ones."

"Sure."

Samara heard no other sound for a few seconds before those light steps approached the bed. Light dominated her eyesight as Andrea removed the hat and gave the marshal a small, bemused smile.

"Now that has to be the easiest answer you've ever given me. Somethin' on your mind?"

The marshal grunted as she interlocked her hands over her stomach, hiding the photos from view. "More like someone."

"Oh, this ought to be good."

Samara thought it over as she eyed the blond now sitting on the edge of her bed. Maybe a bit of an outside perception into her dilemma would shed some light.

"What're these?" Andrea frowned as she eyed the burnt and crinkly photos the marshal was offering.

"Photos."

"I can see that. Of who?"

"My family."

Andrea's gaze settled into detachment as she observed them carefully.

"I've never seen you with these before."

"That's because I didn't have them." Samara's arm settled at the back of her head, cushioning her tender scalp from the cold concrete wall. "They were in the car I was supposed to leave the farm with. The same car Rick got his son, Dale and Hershel out. I thought I would never see them again, but…" She took a deep breath as the words reluctantly came out. "Daryl gave them to me this morning."

Blond eyebrows shot up so high they could have gotten lost in her hairline. "What?"

"He held on to them this whole time."

"Why?"

Samara shook her head just as lost. She had absolutely no idea.

Andrea inspected the charred edges of the photos. There was even some black sooth on the center, making it a bit hard to see the faces.

"He tried to burn them…"

The picture with Samara and her husband was the most interesting. Out of the two it was the most unkempt. Almost like it had been manhandled by harsh hands.

"Were they always this rumpled?"

"No."

Andrea's brows furrowed even further.

A pale finger ran over the determined line in the center of the picture, splitting up the man and woman. What Andrea saw was someone that folded the photo way too often and the blond was sure the hunter hadn't been interested in looking at John.

Samara's gaze was glued to the same whitened line the blond had been focused on. There was a crease between her brows as troubled mystification marred her expression. "What am I supposed to think of that?"

Andrea shook her head. She was the last person that would know what went on inside Daryl Dixon's head, but to her this spoke of someone that spent too much time gazing at the pictures of the marshal.

"You ask him?" The blond asked as she handed over the photos.

Again, the Native shook her head as she stared at the face of her now estranged husband.

"Maybe you should."

 _Maybe I should…_

* * *

After dinner, the meeting didn't take long. As Rick mentioned, Daryl was team leader with Andrea, Tyreese, Oscar and Glenn joining. They were going to head out in a week to a home depot near the fringes of Newnan.

It didn't take long for everyone to scatter to their respective posts, jobs and cells. Rick hadn't eaten his food as fast as the others, preferring to stall time until he returned to his cell. He didn't want to bump into Lori on the way. He really wanted to avoid starting another never-ending argument or a discussion about them and their future together. If there was even one…

He swore it was getting worse with each day. In the normal days, they probably would've been divorced by now. However, they didn't have that luxury anymore and, besides, there was still their son they had to think about and the baby. Through better or worse, they had to stick together.

Rustle.

Rick looked up to find someone else still loitering around the mess-hall. Samara sat opposite him and watched him with a quirk on her lips.

"I see you've skipped past the part of voting the decision."

The sheriff put down his fork as he focused on the marshal. "We don't vote anymore."

"Totalitarianism, then?" The corner of her lips sharpened with dark amusement.

"We were gettin' nowhere with everyone wantin' the opposite thing so I told them that they either follow me or go on their own." The night he proclaimed himself official leader had been a decisive point in his life. Until then, Rick had been just a reluctant leader, doing it not because he wanted to, but because it was expected of him. "Not many liked it, but it worked. It got us this far."

Samara kept staring at him with that amused scorn, prompting the sheriff's animosity. He didn't like that look.

"Not very rewarding, is it?" She spoke in a hushed tone. "I told you, right back when we met, that there was going to be a day when you'll have to make the necessary choices to survive even if it was the immoral one. Even if it made you the bad guy. And this time, you didn't have me or Shane to play that part."

Rick lost his appetite as he stared down the marshal. "What do you want me to say? That you were right?"

"No, I don't need it." She settled her chin on her closed fist, the scorn fading into sincerity. "I'm just glad that you finally realized that you can't lead and appease everyone at the same time. Leaders are the ones making the harsh choices."

The sheriff huffed. If it had been just him and his family, he would have never taken up the mantle. He didn't want to be this person. To decide every step of their journey, risking everyone's lives for a better future and be the scapegoat when things inevitably went wrong.

"Is this how you felt all those times? Like the bad guy?"

"Are you saying that I wasn't? I was the odd man out. I chose to be rational instead of emotional. I chose to handle things strictly and without sympathy even if at times I disliked doing it." Just because she was ruthless, didn't mean Samara enjoyed any part of it. There were times when she felt out of the ordinary for being so prepared to get her hands dirty. "I was the one nobody wanted to listen to because they were too scared to make those immoral choices. Because you couldn't accept that life had changed for the worst." A Wild West without a social structure. "But I was a necessary evil since you people still came to me when there was a problem that needed fixing. Just like they do to you now."

The marshal scratched her scarred chin, her smirk turning hollow. "To answer your question—It sucks to be the bad guy."

Rick sighed as he now could relate to her. At the beginning of their long journey on the road, he had been the bad guy—the one who killed Shane, the one who kept alarming secrets from the others. He had accepted it wholeheartedly because he had felt responsible for the disaster at the farm. He shouldered those burdens, never once flinching because that was his punishment and he had to carry it without complaints.

Rick couldn't second-guess himself anymore. If the right decision had to be the one against every fiber of his being, then let it be that.

"I ain't alone, though. Daryl and Tyreese help, sometimes even Hershel." Rick leans back over the table, watching the Native intently. "I'm hoping that you will also."

"You never once liked my opinions."

"Not always, but they had a grain of truth. As much as I consider them callous and sometimes bloody, you did have everyone's best interest at heart." Sometimes, Rick would get a glimpse of it in the most troubling of times and he needed that. That ruthlessness with a tinge of goodness. "I don't see everythin' the same as I used to, Samara. These months have given me a new perspective on what's needed to be done to survive. I killed Tomas because I knew he was a threat, I threw Andrew out because he was just as bad as Tomas, I separated Axel and Oscar from us because they were strangers and it took me a long time to trust them and I'm still watchin' that friend of yours."

"You don't need to worry about Michonne. I know she comes off as quiet and intense, but that's just her way around new people." Around everyone really, but get past that steely exterior and the woman was quite fun. "She's a lot of things and trigger-happy isn't one of them."

Samara rose from her seat and straightened out her coat.

"Sorry, Grimes, but I'm saying no to your offer. I'm a soldier, not a leader."

"You seem to be good at it."

"You think I'm the chief in my little group? Hell no, we decide everything together. I was just the paranoid one making plans in case of emergencies." She chuckled in good nature, her titter soon turning into a whimsical smile. "You have all the help you need here. You don't need me."

"It would be nice for all times sake." Rick smiled in return, but knew it was a lost cause. "I miss our talks."

The woman flinched faintly before abruptly leaving the man to his food. The echo of her boots bounced off the walls of the empty cafeteria.

"Yeah well, they never ended well, did they?"

Rick pushed away his plate in dissatisfaction as the double doors finally stopped swinging. Left to his own thoughts, the sheriff found the silence infinitely more stifling.

* * *

With fresh air hitting her sense, Samara descended the steps of the prison entrance and pushed the chain fence door. She had a date with the watch tower tonight and she was early. Dixon was up in that place, waiting for the change of the guard. The marshal was hoping to have a few words with him. Her discussion with Rick got her fired up enough to challenge the hunter and he wasn't going to leave that tower without answers.

With a quick jog up the stairs and a knock on the door, Samara entered the dimly illuminated tower without waiting for a welcoming.

Daryl turned in his chair, the perpetual frown creasing further as he realized it was Samara. She had avoided him all day—which he did also—and now she stood tall with that determined spark in her eyes.

"Dixon, why did you have my photos?"

The question had been spoken in such a grave tone that it had Daryl's throat dry out.

"Found them in your bags." He answered as impartially as possible.

"But why did you keep them after I presumably died?"

There was no answer this time.

Samara took a step closer. On reflex, Daryl rose from his seat and stood straight. He wasn't about to face her with his back turned. He had done that mistake once and she had taken advantage of it.

The Native watched him with a critical eye, searching for chinks and faults in his facade. Maybe it was the dim light of the camp lantern creating engrossing shadows across his face or maybe it was the fact that it was a cloudy night, but Samara couldn't find anything to prey on.

"Daryl." Samara took a step further, the shadows now creating dancing phantoms over her skin as the faint glow reflected like a dying star in her burning pupils. "You know I'm not going to let this go. Don't make this any harder than it already is."

His lips pressed tighter.

She was a breath away now. He could feel the Native's stare scorching him as they tried to look past his skin and muscles and bone and find what lurked in his soul.

There was a tenseness in the air, suffocating both tower inhabitants. The silence aggravated them further as the only sounds were their heaving breaths.

"Daryl!"

Her abrupt shout startled the man, but outwardly he just narrowed his eyes further into slits.

"I felt guilty for leavin' you behind, alright? When I got over what happened, I tried to burn them so I didn't have to be reminded of that night."

"But you didn't."

"I couldn't." Once he saw the burning edges of the photos curl in on themselves, he had felt it in his gut how much of a mistake he had done and saved them. "Those two photos were the only proof that you existed. That you lived with us for a time. I didn't think it was right to just throw 'em away so I held on to them. Nothin' more."

"Heh." The woman had the audacity to snicker in his face. "I expected something that sentimental from Grimes, but not you. We weren't friends, at best we were colleagues." Samara just couldn't understand why he of all people kept them. If their roles had been reversed, she wouldn't have bothered, past transgressions between them aside.

Alright, let's say for the moment that she believed him. Daryl kept her photos relatively safe because of his guilt for leaving her back at the farm, but it still didn't explain some things.

"Why was the photo of John and me creased in the middle?"

"I had to fold them so they would fit in my pocket."

Samara bore daggers into him. "That's a _lie_. The other one had erratic lines similar to being stuffed in a pocket. The one with John was purposely creased that way. So it could split us two up. So you could look at one without the other."

"I don't know what you're talkin' about. You're seein' somethin' that ain't there."

"What am I seeing?"

"How the hell should I know?" He reined in his flaring temper and with a deep breath, picked up his discarded crossbow and sidestepped her. "If that's all you had to ask then my shift is over."

Infuriated, Samara followed Daryl as he tried to escape. _I want answers, goddamnit!_

"Dixon."

"What?

"You still haven't answered my question."

"I did. Not my fault you don't like it." Daryl opened the door and gave her one last look. "You got your night shift. Best start it."

With a growl on the tip of her tongue, Samara forced the door shut with a bang. Both hunter and marshal heard the thunderous sound reverberate down the tower, but it didn't distract them from glaring at each other.

Daryl tried to move her hand away, but the woman appeared glued to the door.

"Indian, don't make me push you out of the way."

"Try it." She scowled unpleasantly. "I'll punch you in the nose again and, this time, I'll break it."

Daryl cursed loudly as he backed away. Even if he forced her out of his path, he was sure the woman would attack him and the last thing he wanted was to start a brawl.

Samara followed the hunter as he leaned against the control panel, frustrated.

"Tell me."

"There ain't nothin' to tell!" He exploded with fire in those harsh eyes.

"Bullshit! You kept the photos of a woman you despised for five months. You tried to burn them and changed your mind at the last second. That says something."

There was no word out of him except his hard, labored breath.

"What made you change your mind? What did you see in them? The life I had before the virus? How different I was?" It was then that that one deep, hidden thought shined bright in her mind. Her voice wavered as the words came out. "Did you like looking at them?"

—A crack in the mask.

"Back off." His voice was ten shades lower and a whole lot colder.

Samara wasted no time as she metaphorically jabbed her fingers into the fracture and attempted to pry it open.

"What did you do with this, Dixon?" She waved the photo of her husband and her in front of his face. "Did you think of how it would be like to be happy and have a marriage? Where you trying to imagine what it would be like to have something you never had?" She cringed for a second as another thought invaded her mind, a more perverse one. "Did you lie awake at night looking at my face while you jerk—"

"No, dammit!"

"Then what?! You can't expect me to overlook this!"

"Yes, I do!" He was close now. Close enough that their breaths intermingled and foreheads almost touched. "Just stop askin'!"

"Why?"

"Because I don't know either!"

The silence that followed was so staggering that it made Samara recoil in surprise. Daryl took a deep breath as he tried to regain his bearings. His mind was like a beehive at the moment with thoughts buzzing around senselessly.

"I don't know why I kept your pictures. I don't know why I didn't burn them when I should have. I didn't think about it, I just did. What I was thinkin' at that time was—"

Daryl stopped. He couldn't speak further than that because it would take him down a path he wasn't prepared for.

Samara felt frozen in time, unknowledgeable on how to proceed in this situation. There was something in this room, a foreboding shadow tethering on the edges of their minds. An almost tangible thought and if she just reached out and grabbed it, she would get a tiny glimpse of what lay underneath.

The marshal immediately retreated.

—It _burned_.

"Alright."

Pale blue eyes narrowed in incredulous doubt.

"That's it?"

Samara silently walked past him and settled in the once occupied chair, not turning back once. Her fingers clenched over the photo of John, the only anchor she had keeping her from drowning.

"I don't think I want to know either."


	9. Practice Makes Perfect

Thwack!

"Dammit."

Thwack!

"Shit."

Thwack!

"Fuck!"

Samara lowered her bow as she struggled with the urge to break it in half. Her fingers were poised readily over the grip, but she knew that even if she tried, the firm metal wouldn't budge an inch. This was the bow's way of mocking her clumsiness.

How many weeks had it been since she found this piece of weaponry and still couldn't use it properly? She felt like a child too stupid to understand a simple lesson. She wished she had listened to her grandfather all those years ago and joined the local 'traditional values' club and learned things like hunting and bow shooting that her ancestors had, but young Samara had deemed it useless in the modern-day era. How it bit her in the ass now…

The marshal was beginning to lose interest in trying. Maybe she just wasn't meant to use it.

 _I quit. I'm no good with a bow._

Walking back to the front courtyard, Samara saw Andrea sitting at one of the wooden tables with Dale, quietly laughing, and a short distance away, Lori and her son. He seemed to be helping his mother with breathing exercises despite the fact that he looked like he wanted to be somewhere else.

Andrea noticed her first, or to be more specific, her murderous scowl.

"No luck, huh?"

Samara doesn't answer as she stiffly walked past and approached the table with mother and son.

"Hey, Carl. Do you want a bow?"

Carl never got a chance to answer as the Native practically pushed the compound bow and quiver in his arms, startling him. It seemed it had been the wrong move as Lori all but shouted angrily.

"Samara, don't just drop your things in my son's lap!"

The marshal didn't even look back as she entered the prison.

"What the hell is wrong with her?" Lori glowered after the woman.

"Can I have these?" Carl looked reverently at the weapon. He could learn how to use it like Daryl, maybe even be allowed to go hunting with him.

"They're not yours, baby."

Lori pried them from his disappointed clutch and laid them on the table. The bow wasn't her problem. It could remain outside and rust for all she cared.

"She didn't mean anythin' by it, Lori. Just give 'em to me." Andrea said as she walked up to them and picked up the items. "Samara'll comeback for them sooner or later. She always does."

* * *

Daryl was on the metal stairs of their cell-block, sharpening his hunting knife when Andrea walked in with a familiar weapon in hand.

"You learnin' too?"

Andrea paused in confusion.

Daryl pointed at the bow with his knife.

Andrea shook her head as she adjusted the uncomfortable quiver hanging off her shoulder. "I tried once, but I'm worse than Samara. I'm fine with it, though. I like guns better."

The hunter stared at the weapon and remembered the state the Indian had been in as she marched through the corridor and into her own cell. She looked about ready to kill someone.

"She give it to you?"

"More like she threw it away." She huffed as she now had to babysit Samara's toys. He swore the woman needed a session in anger management. "But give her a few hours to calm down and she'll be back."

Daryl was not surprised by the Indian's actions, given how many mistakes she made. It was understandable. Nobody had taught her and she had probably adjusted her stance based on what she saw in movies.

Well, it wasn't like it mattered to him. If she had wanted help then it would have been smart of her to ask for it. He was the only one here who knew how a bow worked, but if she was being stubborn then he wasn't about to go trailing after her.

That thought lasted two days.

Daryl hadn't seen hide or hair of the marshal, not with the discarded weapon at least. Daryl hadn't even seen her at the baseball field on his morning patrols and for some reason it irked him.

She was an idiot, he thought. If she wanted to learn how to defend herself with something other than a gun then she shouldn't have given up so easily. Walkers or people won't give up trying to kill her if the situation arose. Whatever her reason had been for picking up that bow she should follow it through to the end, not throw a tantrum and discard it because she missed the target a few times.

Throwing his cigarette away, Daryl came to a decision.

He parted the curtain shielding Andrea's cell and found her reading a book on her bed.

"Don't you know how to knock first?"

"Do you still have that compound bow?" He asked as his eyes already found the weapon in question.

"As you can see."

"Give it to me."

Andrea's pale brows contorted at the Georgia man's almost commanding tone. She closed her book and rose to a sitting position as she stared at him curiously.

"Samara's pretty touchy with her things. She might not like seein' others with them." In other words, she might try to punch him.

"She ain't come back for them in two days." Why couldn't she just give them to him? He didn't want to explain himself. "Besides, I'm takin' it to her."

The woman stared and Daryl swore those eyes of hers were trying to see directly into his soul. He was about to snap at her when she rose to her feet and picked up the bow and quiver full of arrows. Andrea handed the objects without word and Daryl took them with a grateful nod and left for his intended destination.

"She's in the gym with Michonne." She called out. "Good luck..."

He'll need it.

* * *

"Oh, come on. Show me how to use that thing."

That thing being the katana that Michonne was currently twirling between her fingers with such ease that it made the marshal envious.

"Don't you want a tomahawk, instead?"

"Hardy-fucking-har. I'm serious."

"Alright, but since you're just a beginner, you're going to use a stick."

"…A stick?"

"A wooden sword to be more precise. That's how I started. Only downside is that you're going to have to make one from scratch."

Samara groaned. She wasn't a beaver and she didn't have the patience to sharpen a stake.

"How do you know how to wield a katana? I never asked you that."

"I practiced fencing when I was a kid, but lost interest when I grew up." Michonne did a few practiced swings as she turned with graceful fluidity. "Picked it up again in college for a short while. I guess the muscle memory stayed with me."

"Wasn't fencing a bit different? Didn't they usually poke each other with long needles?"

The woman shrugged. "It's almost the same principle. I just had to adapt myself to a bigger sword, that's all. That and try a few cuts that didn't make my wrists pop."

"You're just full of surprises." Samara smirked as she watched Michonne perform her katas. "Why fencing of all sports?"

"I didn't decide on it, my parents did. They thought it was sophisticated."

Huh, parents and their strange desires. Samara knew that children were basically shells that parents implemented their dreams that they never got to achieve in their own life. A bit sad, but that's how it was. Even she didn't escape her parent's wishes.

"So, where did you get the sword then? I assume you didn't just have it lying around your house."

A shadow seemed to take over Michonne's dark eyes turning them into even deeper abysses. Whatever memory Samara just awakened she hoped that that sharp blade wouldn't be anywhere near her body if Michonne decided to swing it.

"My neighbor's kid was the one who owned this. He was a psychotic little turd who I know destroyed our fence with this blade and killed our cat."

Samara's lips contorted. "Ouch."

"Trust me, it felt good destroying his undead corpse with his own weapon."

The marshal wasn't about to disagree with that.

Michonne stilled as her eyes adjusted to something beyond Samara's shoulder. Soon, heavy boots alerted the marshal of an intruder in the gym.

Daryl walked out of the darkened parts of the room and approached the two women. They were standing so still and watching him with such scrutiny that Daryl thought he was being examined with a microscope like some sort of new specimen.

Once Samara saw her bow situated in his hands, a surge of annoyance had her body aflame. _What the hell is he doing with my stuff?_ But a stray thought came knocking on her head reminding her that she had no reason to be angry since she had discarded it.

 _Finders keepers, I guess._

"You can take it if you want. I don't need—"

"Come outside." He interrupted her gruffly. "I'm gonna show you how to use this."

Samara was left speechless. Was this some joke or…?

She looked to Michonne for answers, but the woman only shrugged. She was as a much loss as the marshal was, but ultimately the decision didn't lie with her.

What reason could Daryl have in helping her? After the talk in the guard tower, they had avoided each other. It was expected of Samara, she had felt a sort of misplacement as they had danced around the subject of the photos. There was still a certain skittishness about her, only because she was nervous of the possibility of the subject being resurrected, but Samara was sure she was in the clear since Dixon wasn't the type to bring up past awkward discussions. It wasn't in his nature as a private loner.

So maybe this invitation was actually true and not some lure into another uncomfortable conversation. The words spoken and unspoken in the tower had been enough for her to know that abandoning ship was better than staying on it while it crashed into the iceberg. People usually died when that happened.

Her prolonged silence had him rethinking his idea. Maybe he shouldn't have taken an interest in her situation. He should have just kept quiet and seen to his own matters.

Just as he was about to turn tail and leave, feeling stupider than once he came in, he heard her boots clacking against concrete. Pacing herself beside him, Daryl opted not to give the Indian a glance. He already could feel her gawk on him and he didn't want to meet that undivided attention.

He'll have enough of that at her makeshift shooting range.

* * *

Stepping onto the baseball field, they found the walker Samara tied up in the same place as before. As crude as Daryl found her method, he wasn't about to abandon it.

"Take up position."

However, Samara remained stationary with the bow and quiver, opting to watch him carefully. "Why are you doing this?"

He wished that for once she would just stop asking and let it be. He didn't ask reasons for every move she made. "I just don't think you should throw it away just because it didn't work the first time."

"First time? I've been trying to use this piece of shit for more than three weeks! Nothing I do works!"

"Yeah, 'cause you're such an expert on bows."

Samara's eyes narrowed even further.

"Look, do you want help or not?"

He swore if she turned his offer down then he'll take the bow for himself and maybe teach Sasha or Tyreese how to use it. Probably the sister since the brother was a terrible shot. He wasn't going to waste time on someone who was too stubborn to accept the help he was practically offering on a silver platter.

But she surprised him the moment she reluctantly nodded.

 _Maybe not so stubborn after all…_

"Take. Up. Position."

"You said mine wasn't good."

"It ain't, but I wanna show you where you got it wrong."

Samara settled in her stance as Daryl slowly paced around her, scrutinizing every muscle and placement of her limbs. At least her feet were seemingly rooted strong, the only problem being if she could keep them that way.

"Draw string."

She did.

"Release."

Thwack!

"Again."

She repeated the whole process and Daryl saw everything he needed in just those two instances and realized he was slightly disappointed. He had expected a little more from her.

"You're makin' all the mistakes a rookie would. You change position every time you release an arrow. You need to be steady otherwise your balance gets screwed up and you miss your chance for stronger shots."

Samara looked at her feet and frowned as she shuffled them back in their initial position.

 _At least she's quick to learn._

"Next is your elbow. Take aim." Daryl stepped closer once she drew the string. He touched her arm and rotated her elbow until it was straight up and down. "This is the right position. Don't your inner elbow hurt after?"

"It does."

His finger tapped on her inner junction. "This is one of the reasons your arrows can't hit shit. Lower the bow."

Samara listened and carefully waited for his next words.

"Now, your hands." He paused minutely before shaking off his reserves, grabbing her hand and taking off the leather glove.

Daryl scrutinized her open palm. There were blisters on the side of her fingers, some fresh, others old and scarred over. "See these? You rush every time you draw the bowstring and put too much tension in your fingers. You're harmin' yourself more than doin' anythin' good."

As he lectured her, Daryl couldn't help himself from watching her spidery fingers. They seemed so small and deceptively fragile compared to his more larger and callous ones.

 _The Indian should take care of these ugly ass blisters before they get worse._

He blinked in surprise. There was a faded scar running along her palm.

 _Ah yeah…_ He remembered this one. Daryl had found broadleaves for it to prevent the possibility of an infection.

Subconsciously, his finger moved over the healed over skin. The scar wasn't overtly glaring, but stare at her palm carefully enough and you would see the thin, pale line. As Daryl inevitably remembered that incident in the forest he also remembered her practically hanging by his wrist in a drunken state at the RV. She had scrutinized his hand with such burning intensity, mirroring his current situation.

Her skin was still as warm as he remembered—

"Are you done fondling my hand?"

Blinking himself to the present, Daryl came face to face with a very bored Samara and his thumb unconsciously caressing her palm. Her hand twitched at the ticklish sensation and judging from her deep seated annoyance, she wasn't happy with the prolonged skin contact.

He let go of her immediately as he hurriedly masked his own growing awkwardness. It didn't help that she was now watching him like a hawk for more unconscious moves.

Picking up an arrow from the quiver at her back, he positioned her fingers over the feathered end. With a deep breath, he circled around and settled at her back. The Indian moved her head to the side, keeping him in sight. He didn't blame her for not trusting him. Right now, he didn't trust himself. That was why he kept enough distance between his body and hers to fit another person as he used his own hands to guide Samara in drawing correctly. Despite his efforts, Daryl could still feel her body heat through his leather jacket and poncho.

These were the times that he hated what obsessing over her photos had done to him. Maybe it would have been better if Glenn had never found her at the farm. At least then he could have kept thinking that he was only fascinated by a dead woman.

This next part was going to be the hardest as Daryl had to move closer to her.

"Draw."

Carefully not to loosen her hold, Daryl moved her drawn hand so it was placed underneath her chin.

"Your chin is your anchor. Use it every time you draw."

Daryl paused in his task as a small breeze moved her strands making her hair appear like a restless deep ocean. In fascination, he watched the light of the sun create a navy tinge on her dark hair. He was so close that he could smell her shampoo—something herbal with a hint of lavender. It wasn't very distinct, but the closer he got the stronger it was. Unable to control himself, Daryl leaned closer and inhaled the scent as noiselessly as possible.

Samara shifted as she became apprehensive of the prolonged silence.

 _Get away from her. Right now._

"Don't just aim and shoot. Take your time." Daryl hoped to God that his voice sounded as neutral as possible. "If you don't, the only thing you do is shoot a weak ass arrow. Aimin' is important, but so are your muscles."

In relief, he took a wide step away. If that reaction happened every time they got close, he'd rather not be near her again.

"Draw like I showed you."

Samara did, but Daryl could still make out some mistakes. He corrected them immediately through words before settling back and observing.

The arrow hit the walker in the shoulder.

The look of wonder regained Daryl's attention. Samara gazed at the arrow as if she had achieved some grand prize. He couldn't understand her enthrallment as it wasn't the best shot, only good enough for a beginner.

"Holy shit, I did it." Samara laughed as she stared bright eyed at her success. "Maybe not the head, but I got closer in these last few minutes than I have in weeks."

"You'll get it. You just practiced doin' it wrong for so long that it's now reflex. Just remember what I told you and don't change your stance every time you take a shot."

She turned to him and Daryl noticed almost despondent that her smile was lost in favor of a more collected and neutral expression.

"Thank you, Dixon. This was unexpected, but welcome."

Daryl nodded only half aware of her words as his mind was still on her lost smile. Before, she would have never displayed such open emotion, preferring to smirk condescendingly or just stare indifferently, especially when it came to him. But now, she was smiling, uncaring of who her present company was.

 _She's really changed…_

And all of those thoughts came to a crashing halt.

"I'll let you practice on your own."

Daryl left without waiting for an answer. He needed to put some distance between them, far away from her warmth and shampoo scent that he could still smell around him.

What the hell had he been doing back there? He was supposed to only show her how to use a bow, not almost rub against her like a dog in heat. Daryl wanted to repeatedly bash his head against a wall as he realized his comparison was almost true as he pretty much sniffed her hair and caressed her hand like a mutt. The worst part was realizing that handing over the photos hadn't resolved anything. He was in the same state as before, probably worse judging by what he did just a few moments ago.

And all of this happened because he just hadn't allowed himself to burn them as intended.

 _Fuck!_

There were still times when he reflexively reached for the phantom photos at his back pocket, only to realize that he no longer was in their possession. When that happened he would start belittling himself for acting like a teenage girl with a new beau. This was not like him. Daryl didn't become fixated with objects or people, he was too smart for that. He knew the dangers they represented, had seen them first hand in his brother's addiction to drugs and in his mother's with alcohol.

And that was what those photos represented—a drug. One that he was currently withdrawing from.

Goddamn, anything was better than this bizarre limbo he was currently residing in.

 _This couldn't possibly get any worse…_

And yet, he had an inkling that it could.

* * *

Samara kept practicing until the late hours of the day. There was a giddiness about her as she reveled in her newest acquired ability, but mostly it excuse her from pondering on Daryl's odd behavior.

The marshal grinned as she stared at the walker's arrow riddled head. An important step had just been achieved today and Samara hoped that she would soon get the opportunity to use it in real situations. Prior to coming here, the Native had been reluctant to hunt because of gunshots attracting walkers, but now she had no more reservations. She just had to practice head shots for a better kill.

Samara winced unexpectedly as her hand reached for her lower back. All this activity had her old pangs acting up. As she took out her pill bottle she froze at the loud rattle it produced. It sounded way too clear and that meant—

Looking inside, Samara's eyes grew in horror. The container was empty save for one pill. How the hell hadn't she seen this before? Had she been so distracted by recent events that she hadn't even deemed necessary to check up on her supply? What was worse that the next supply run was a few days away. Samara wasn't confident enough that she'll be able to last that long.

Which meant only one thing…

* * *

Samara stepped quietly into the medical ward.

A part of her hoped that Hershel wasn't around so that she could browse the storage at her leisure. She needed to be sure that they had painkillers around because if there weren't, she will have to go on the dry and that was a petrifying thought.

Unfortunately, Samara wasn't that lucky—Hershel was with Carol practicing on a dead walker.

As the marshal approached, she realized that the walker was female and the two were hovering over its open abdomen like vultures on a carcass.

Hershel was the first to notice her. "Evenin', Samara."

Carol didn't turn, but Samara saw her shoulders lock tensely.

"We're just practicin' how to do a C-section. Best be prepared for when the time comes for Lori to give birth."

Guess that answered her silent question. For a moment, Samara had thought Hershel had fell into a Frankenstein moment of insanity with Carol as his Eyegor.

"Hershel, I need to talk to you." Her eyes landed coldly on the living third wheel. "Just the _two_ of us."

"We'll continue this in a few moments." Hershel reassured the woman as she left the room, bypassing Samara without even a peek in her direction.

The marshal burned holes in her back and only when the door shut did she feel the tension in her body be placated.

"Is there somethin' wrong?" Hershel took off his bloodied medical gloves.

"I'm not going to skirt around the subject. I need painkillers, right now."

"Are you hurt?" Hershel frowned in slight worry.

"I have a migraine." Samara didn't even blink through the lie. This was her problem alone and she didn't want the resident vet-turned-human doctor to know about it. If there was one person that would make a fuss about her pill-popping tendencies, it would be him.

"I have some Ibuprofens you can take."

Samara wanted to cringe. Those were the tame kind, almost like aspirin and it had the same effect of a placebo—nothing.

"Don't you have anything stronger? It sort of hurts badly."

"Unfortunately, we're poor on the medicine department." He sighed as he looked at the almost empty rafters. "Most of it was used when my leg got cut off and other issues throughout the winter, so we've been poor on findin' new supplies to replenish the used ones."

"You have nothing?"

"There is some morphine left, but I can't give you that for a migraine. We have little of it." The old man seemed sympathetic at her plight, but there was nothing that he could do at the moment. "The others will go on a run soon and one of their main goals is findin' medicine. You'll just have to bear through it with Ibuprofens for the moment."

Samara's nails dipped into her palms as she tried to rein in her aggravation.

If he only knew how hard that would be to accomplish.

* * *

 _ **Foot Note:**_ Yey, Samara is finally putting the bow to good use and Daryl is starting to realize that no good deed goes without a whole lot of strings attached and burning them might not be as easy to accomplish as he thought.

I hope I get to update again before the end of the year, but if I don't I wish all of you Merry Christmas and a fabulous New Year!

Cheers, guys!


	10. Salvation is an Orange Container

_**Author's Note:**_ Welcome to 2017, boys and gals! Damn, I hope it's a better year than the last one and I hope you guys didn't get too drunk on New Year's Eve and spent the first day hugging the toilet while sobbing 'Why!'

To **Lilmonkey1507** – Welcome on the story wagon, dude! I'm glad you decided to give the series a chance, despite how flawed Samara is. You wouldn't believe how many have the same love/hate reaction to my character and you know what? I love it! If I can conjure an emotion out of people that probably means I'm on the right path writing-wise. To be truthful, I think Samara's much tamer now compared to the two other stories, either a good sign or a bad one, hehehe. I hope you enjoy reading further!

* * *

The chain fence rattled as a few walkers clung to it with sticky, rotted fingers. They hissed and growled as they snapped their jaws at the small group of humans walking the frozen path on the other side.

A machete speared into a walker's head and it slumped to the ground unmoving.

Samara wiped the accumulated sweat from her brow. The effort needed wasn't that great, but going on fourteen hours without her pills was starting to take its toll. There was a tingling, low-pulsing sensation in her spine and the Native knew that this was just the beginning. Soon, the shakes will start and then the dizziness, nausea and ultimately, pain.

—She was not looking forward to this.

"There are more of them each day."

Samara snapped to attention as she was reminded that she wasn't alone on this pest extermination.

"Winter is done so I guess the walkers are startin' to get active again." Andrea grunted as she drove her knife into a walker's eye. "Can't say I'm unhappy about it. The cold never did well with me. A few more days and I'll finally be able to get rid of this damn Chewbacca suit."

Any other time, Samara would have chuckled at the amusing comparison, but right now she had other problems that occupied her mind.

"How do you think they keep findin' us?" Dale asked as he noticed a new walker emerge from the barren forest. "We stay as quiet as possible and we haven't used guns in over a month."

"Scent or maybe they just finally arrived at the source of the alarm Andrew triggered." Sasha supplemented as she took down a walker with a crowbar. "It's not like they have anything else to do."

 _Smart girl_ , Samara thought. It's been a week since the Native settled at the prison and she barely had any idea of Sasha. Besides being Tyreese's younger sister, she didn't really know anything else about her. Although, considering that the woman had never once tried to speak to her, Samara couldn't blame herself for the lack of knowledge. Perhaps she was of the mind that unnecessary socializing was unnecessary.

 _Speaking of the brother…_

Her attention riveted over to the distant figures of Dixon and Tyreese on the other side of the grassy outfield.

"They're makin' the enclosure for the deer." Dale slowed down to her pace, his eyes on the two men.

Samara said nothing as she was more concentrated on walking without wincing. Right now, she was walking on very sharp shells. Just one teensy wrong step and she'll have to deal with a metaphoric bloody foot.

"Samara, we didn't get to talk much since you came here. What do you think of our home?"

She shrugged. "It's a fortified place, but it's too big for just seventeen people and no offense, but two of them are old men with one missing a leg and another is a thirteen year old."

Instead of being upset, Dale chuckled. "I know I'm no spring chicken anymore, but we get by, and Carl is stronger than you think." His gaze mellowed as he stared at the Chewbacca-coat sporting woman. "Andrea's changed, to the point that I barely recognize her from the woman a few months ago. She's not impulsive or reckless anymore."

"We all have to grow up sometime."

Dale smiled lightly. "I'm glad that the two of you had each other all these months. It was the least that could happen after that night."

The Native's gaze slid to the man beside her. There was genuine remorse shifting his features and Samara knew that for a bleeding heart like him, leaving the two women behind—one of them he viewed as his own flesh and blood—must had been heartbreaking.

"If I'd known you two were still alive, I would've come back for you. I tried, but unfortunately I was detained."

Samara was well aware that he would've thrown himself in front of a bus to save Andrea, but if he had, the blonde would have been the same rash, trigger-fingered woman from before. It was better everything transpired as it did.

The Native separated from Dale, more because she _really_ didn't want any other apologies, and continued in her duty of cleaning the fence. With each swing of her machete her back pulsated with phantom pain and Samara could feel the sweat pouring down like a cascade.

Her next kill had her machete stuck and she had to use her whole upper body's strength to pull it out of the walker's skull. As she freed her blade, Samara heard rather than felt a pop in her spine and yelped before she could control herself.

"Are you alright?"

"Yeah, just stepped wrongly." The Native waved off Sasha's concern.

"Your feet seem alright."

The throbbing combined with Sasha's incessant questions and this infuriating situation had Samara finally snap. "Mind your own business!"

"Jesus, fine." Sasha backed away, miffed. "Forget I asked."

Samara exhaled heavily as she heard the younger woman's steps fade away, no doubt mumbling about her underneath her breath. _There goes another alienated person._

Straightening as gently as possible, the Native realized that to have a relatively painless life she would need to minimize the physical activity until the next supply run. Every exertion just accelerated the process and if this continued, Samara won't be able to hide it any longer. Perhaps, a change of pace would be better.

Her eyes slid over to the premature deer enclosure.

 _That might work._

* * *

"Need some help?"

Daryl's head almost unscrewed itself off with the speed he turned around. The Indian stood before them with her eyes on Tyreese, ignoring him entirely. Just the mere sight of her had the hunter recall the bow lesson and his jaw locked painfully.

"The more we are the faster we set this up." Tyreese paused in digging up a small hole as he scrutinized Samara's shifty body. "Are you feeling alright? You look kinda pale."

"I have a headache."

 _That ain't no headache_ , Daryl thought. The Indian looked like she was on the way to her own funeral and unless she had recently participated in a marathon she shouldn't be sweating so much.

"Well, just help Daryl in picking up that post, dump it in this hole here and hold it straight." Tyreese invited the woman as he climbed atop the extendable ladder, ready to hammer the pole in the ground.

While Daryl wasn't exactly comfortable with this situation, he wasn't about to turn the woman away. That would just bring her attention on him and he didn't think he could deal with another 'lesson'.

The hunter almost jumped out of his skin once the Native caught hold of the metal post. Since he had been the one supporting it, she was now in very close proximity and he could practically feel the heat rolling off her body. It made his skin crawl and not in a good way.

Just as Tyreese began to hammer the pole in, Daryl felt her eyes burn into his skull. It took great effort to ignore that hawk gaze of hers. He was adamant on avoiding any questions about his behavior so Daryl counted on the fact that they had a third wheel present…but then again, Samara had a way of doing the exact opposite of what he wanted.

"I managed to hit the walker, right in the forehead."

"Keep practicin'." Daryl spoke in relief that for once she opted for normal conversation. "Don't get cocky because you did it once."

"I'm not. I know it takes time."

The next bang signed the deal as the pole remained upright and heavily imbedded into the ground. The only thing left was to unroll the chain fence and tie the ends to the prison's metal walls. Daryl had figured that it would be better to use the prison's resources and place the pen in the corner of the prison's wall so then a quarter of the fence was done.

Daryl had plans on how to build it. The part of the fence he will build had to be tall enough so the deer and buck wouldn't try to escape. The hunter knew that when desperate, deer could jump over high walls and he wanted to avoid that. A roof was also needed or at least a partial one to protect the animals from rain. He had more plans, but first things first—the fence.

"After you finish the enclosure you're going out in the forest to try and catch a deer, right?"

Daryl nodded as the trio began unfurling the chain fence.

"I'm coming with you."

The hunter paused in his work. He wasn't happy, that much both people could tell and Tyreese had enough sense to stay out of their conversation. Samara, being herself, had no such reservation as she waited expectantly.

"And before you say no, you told me the day before I was supposed to leave the farm that you'll take me hunting. It's time you owe up to that."

His frown deepened further. That hadn't exactly been a lifelong promise, just his way of taking her offered olive branch. The moment he learned that she was supposed to leave the following days, the proposal withered and died. Of course the Indian had to interpret it as a blood-oath that transcended time and space. He was pretty sure that if he had died, Samara would have unearthed his corpse and demanded he fulfill his promise, dead as he was.

"I'm not goin' huntin'." He tried to deter her, but knew from experience that it was a lost cause. "I'm goin' to set up a trap."

"I'll help you then. Besides, I want to practice on living targets. Preferably something that's faster than a walker. This _is_ why I picked up that bow, Dixon. Eventually, bullets will run out and I'll have to put away my guns. I need to be ready since I'm not really a close-range fighter. I prefer distance."

And here he thought she was just getting bored of her guns, but it seemed that practicality of hers was what pushed her into something new. Even before, Daryl had admired her pragmatic views and at the same time despised them for their borderline heartlessness, but wasn't about to deny anyone, not even her, the chance to improve their skills.

"Alright."

A fraction of a smile flashed before her focus lapsed back on her work.

While Daryl's gaze remained on her, his mind was anywhere but the present. He sincerely wondered if once back in the forest they would deteriorate to their old ways where she irritated him at every turn and he snapped back at her, or if for once they had peace and quiet. He preferred the later since he couldn't say he missed Samara's aggravating persona. This tamer side of hers appealed much more to him and it was infinitely easier to get along with. Something about that shiver had—

 _Shiver?_

Daryl focused closely on her hands. They indeed were trembling and it seemed Samara noticed as well as she tried to hide it subtlety. It would have worked if he hadn't been around since Tyreese wasn't paying attention, but he _saw_. At this close proximity, it would be thoughtless on his part not to.

That wasn't a normal tremor. There was something distinct about it and the answer stood on the tip of his tongue, but for the life of him Daryl couldn't see the answer.

One thing he did know was that was _no_ cold.

* * *

Twenty hours since the last pill and Samara was just about ready to climb the walls using her teeth.

The withdrawal hit her much sooner than she had expected and, regrettably, so did the pain. Right now, Samara opted to sit as straight as possible since this was one of the few positions that limited the ache.

Time was slipping and she was getting worse. Her hands shook hard enough that she couldn't control them anymore and her appetite was close to non-existent. In fact, just the mere sight of food had her stomach churn unpleasantly and at this moment, she was staring at a plate of beans and canned ham and she was minutes away from ruining everybody's dinner.

Samara chose to sit further away from the others claiming that a migraine was upsetting her and that she wished to eat undisturbed, but no matter how quiet the others tried to be, every word, every scratch of utensil against plate was like nails on a chalkboard amplified by a megaphone.

 _Gods, I can even hear them chew._

It was good that Samara stood with her back to the others. This way they couldn't see her expression of utter horror.

Chew. Scratch. Laugh. Talk. Breathe. Rustle.

 _It's driving me_ fucking _insane!_

Unable to stand that screech any longer, Samara stood on unstable legs and left the mess hall as quickly as possible. If she remained there one moment longer, she swore she would have chucked her plate at the others just to make them _stop_. Moreover, the smell of her dinner changed from once smelling divine to the rotted stench of a trash heap in the middle of summer. Her stomach couldn't take it anymore so a visit to the nearest bathroom was priority.

Unknown to her, Daryl had eyed her the moment she refused joining the others. During the short stay at the mess-hall, he had noticed her inability to hold her utensils and the twisted faces she made at her untouched dinner. Her hasty retreat was no doubt the effect of said dinner.

He realized then what the word sitting on the tip of his tongue was and Daryl was left dumbstruck. She was the last person that he thought would have _that_ kind of problem. It wasn't like sustaining a habit of that caliber was easy these days and the last time he had seen her high, Samara had acted downright sociopathic—she killed a woman and threw her reanimated corpse over a man as a distraction. Since withdrawals only happened after a prolonged exposure to the drug of choice, maybe that meant that this new unruffled attitude was an after-effect. So in other words—

 _She'd been high this entire time?_

Daryl put down his utensils as he suddenly lost his appetite.

And unknown to both Daryl and Samara, the ex-convicts had also noticed the marshal's odd behavior. They recognized her symptoms immediately, but they chose to remain silent. Oscar thought it wasn't his problem and Axel avoided drawing attention even though he wanted to say something.

 _That soft heart of his will get him in trouble one day_ , Oscar thought as he watched Axel follow the marshal out of the hall.

* * *

Samara doused her face and rinsed her mouth with water. She had barely made it in time to retch and she was thankful that she didn't have to mop the floors of morning breakfast.

Reclining on the cool tiles, Samara waited for the nausea to subside long enough for her to stand on her own two legs without experiencing vertigo.

This is the worst, Samara thought. She still felt the need to vomit but nothing else but spit came out while cramps ravaged her stomach, and ironic, a headache began crawling around her skull. The Native rubbed her arms vigorously. Her body was freezing and her skin was clammy, and at the same time scalding and dry. How could such extremes be able to cooperate was beyond her understanding.

"Marshal?"

The woman stilled as someone knocked on the door.

"It's me, Axel."

 _What the fuck was he doing here?_

"You alright? You kinda looked like shit in the mess-hall."

 _Someone did notice_ , Samara grimaced as she leaned her forehead against the wall, leeching off the coolness of the tiles.

"Migraine." The Native wiped the sweat from her brown. "I just need to rest. Don't bother me."

"That ain't no migraine." He paused before speaking more softly. "What're you comin' off of?"

 _Shit._

"How did you know?" She sighed as she was too tired to start a game of denial with the hick.

"I used to have a hankerin' for coke so I know how it looks like. Took prison to finally get me off it and even then I still had days where I could've beaten a guy just for it." He scoffed sardonically. "'Course, if I did that I would've gotten my teeth knocked in. You need to hang in there, marshal. It's tough and you'll wish you'd be dead, but it's worth it in the end."

As inspirational as that was, the convict had got it all wrong—

"I'm not trying to get off it. I'm just _out_ of it."

"Oh…" Was that disappointment she detected? "There's morphine in the medical ward, if you want it."

Samara cringed. "I hate morphine."

"Then what was your drug of choice?"

"Vicodin, Oxys, Demerol. Strong painkillers mostly."

Pause.

"I know an inmate that used to deal with them things before everyone died."

If she had been a dog, her ears would have been perked up, straight as an arrow. Whoever thought that the key to her salvation came in the form of a hick convict?

"Where was his cell?" She used the wall to craw to her feet and leaned against it so she wouldn't slip back to the floor.

"Cell Block B."

This was probably her luckiest day. That cell block had been emptied of walkers by the group on their arrival so it was safe to walk through.

Samara opened the door a tad and eyed the goatee-sporting redneck. He appeared sincere, however her heated brain could be messing up her perception, but what other choice did she have left? It was apparent that she wouldn't last until the next supply run, so there was only one option left.

"Can you take me there?"

Axel stared at her white pallor and sickly disposition. Damn, he could practically feel her agony which was why he came to her in the first place. He _pitied_ her right now.

"You sure?"

Samara glowered. Whatever she did or didn't do, that was her decision not his. If he wasn't willing to help her then she'll strip that cell block clean by herself.

"Alright." Axel tipped his head for her to follow. "I'll take you to there."

* * *

The journey to Cell Block B had proven to be harder than she had anticipated. While crossing the bridge between buildings, Samara had needed to hold onto the chain fence for support. Her legs felt like clay and at any moment they seemed on the verge of collapsing, but nothing was as worse as the sound of her teeth grinding against each other. It was worse that styrofoam.

"Why didn't you tell anyone about the painkillers?" Conversation was always a good distracter.

"Between learnin' that the world had gone to shit and tryin' to convince Rick that we weren't gonna slit their throats the first instant they shut their eyes, I guess it must've slipped my mind." Axel pushed open the metal door, the rusty sound echoing out into the empty building.

Samara yelped as she almost fell down the stairs and she would have if it hadn't been for Axel to break her fall. Her knees were so weak, but she'd rather fall to the dirty, cold floor than be held by this man. With renewed strength, Samara pushed him away and landed on four legs, wincing all the way.

"Don't touch me!"

Axel raised his hands in surrender as he stared at her like she grew a second head. "I'm just tryin' to help."

Samara breathed harshly as she gathered her strengths and settled on the first step. She needed a moment's rest before she could continue. "Why?"

"Because you're my neighbor and that means I should help you."

On any other day, the Native would have laughed shrilly at his rather naïve reason. Even this man should know better than to have such a simplistic view on matters these days.

"I just told you a week ago that I don't really care if you live or die."

He shrugged. "It ain't nothin' new to me. I've been told that my entire life. Shit don't stick to me no more."

"A thick skin, huh?" Samara smirked feebly.

"Had to, to survive in here." The man stared at her indecisively as he held his elbows. "Look, I ain't a bad guy. Now Tomas and Andrew, they were _bad_ people. They killed my friend, Big Tiny. He ain't never hurt no one and that asshole, Tomas, just beat him to death the moment he got bit." Axel breathed heavily as he regained his composure. He had worked himself up as the memory of Tiny's brutal death flashed before his eyes. "Oscar ain't bad either. He kept Tomas from killin' me when he went into one of his crazy rages. He's a loyal friend."

The man looked her deep in the eye and Samara, for once, listened attentively.

"I'm a convict, I admit it. I never did much with my life than get into trouble. I made a whole lot of mistakes, but who didn't? Times changed. Now, I'm just tryin' to survive the same as you." His frown deepened as he tried to make her understand. "Is that so bad of me to want? To live? To belong?"

 _No, it wasn't_ , Samara begrudgingly admitted. Although her instincts screamed at her that this man was part of the same category as the ones she arrested, he was genuinely the first one that didn't try to punch, kick, stab or shoot her. Many would have tried at the first sign of weakness, but he didn't. Her old discrimination towards convicts, inmates and people that appalled her for their backwoods behavior and trashy background made it hard to peer past the fog of contempt and see them as normal people. Although considering that she was by far a normal person, Samara might not be the best to judge others.

What did she know about this man? He was a dumb thief that was clear, but Grimes obviously trusted him and his associate enough to let them walk among his group freely. And he was leading her to her salvation, so maybe she could give him a break just this _once_.

With great reluctance, Samara offered her hand for him to take. "This doesn't make us friends."

He hauled her to her feet with a relaxed smile. "Don't worry. I already got my friends."

They continued on their way with Samara shuffling slowly behind him. The climb up the stairs to the upper row of cells had required for her to hold onto the rail for dear life. To her complete trepidation, it felt like being in gym class all over again. Once on the second story, Axel stopped in front of a cell and motioned inside it. Samara swept the entirety of it with once glance—the cell was covered in a thick blanket of dust, crusted blood palm prints were seemingly leading outside out of the cell, leaving only scratches in the concrete and broken fingernails.

Samara grimaced. _Unlucky bastard._

The rest of the cell was in disarray with clothes strewn about and one half of the mattress hanging off the bed. Several posters were plastered over the walls with naked women arranged in vulgar poses and one of them had doodles drawn all over it including a mustache in a place other than the face, several pairs of teats and Chinese dragon features. 'Clearly', the inmate had been Picasso reincarnated.

"Do you know where they are?" She toed the dirty, spotted mattress.

"The only thing I know is who dealt them."

The ire festering in her scalding eyes had Axel take a step back.

"So that means there probably aren't any pills."

The man just shrugged. How was he at fault here?

The Native groaned as she rubbed her tired face. Samara didn't want to believe she just made this exhausting trip all for a pipe dream.

 _Pull yourself together. This is not the time to wallow in self-pity._

Samara breathed in deeply and pinched herself hard enough. She needed to be clear headed to explore the cell since even though Axel wasn't aware where they were hidden, it didn't throw away the possibility of them being present.

 _Now, where would a convict hide illegal drugs?_

The inspection began forthright. Samara cut the mattress and searched inside it, she unscrewed the bolts of the toilet and sink and Axel moved them to see if anything was hidden inside or behind it, she knocked on every single part of the walls for hollow points while Axel checked the dead inmate's clothes.

Fast-forward an hour and they found _nothing_ , not even a makeshift shank.

Samara sat on the torn up mattress, deep in thought, while Axel leaned against the wall wiping his dusted hands against his overalls.

"Sorry, marshal. I really did think there was somethin' here."

Surprisingly, Samara wasn't even disappointed. The Native had expected this from the start and delved in with fifty-fifty percent chances of discovering anything.

As her eyes rested on the clothes strewn over the floor, she tried to think up other place where the inmate could have hidden them—nearby cells, shower room, dug somewhere outside in the fields. So many places, but at least it would keep her occupied, and even if she didn't find them at least she'd be busy long enough until the supply run day came.

As her mind wandered to other hidey-holes, Samara locked onto a hole in an ugly colored sweater. That hole should have been sewn not left to gap open like…that…

Hole.

Sewn.

The metaphoric light-bulb lit up.

With quick movements, Samara scrounged up all the clothes in her lap, giving off the impression of a packrat. She started inspecting each one, the jacket and pants especially.

"I already checked them."

Samara didn't hear the man as she fished through every pocket for any irregularities as well as patted down the fabric with an intensity bordering on obsession. While feeling up the jacket, there was something odd inside one of the deeper pockets—an accentuated suture in the corner.

 _Gotcha,_ Samara smirked.

With her pocket-knife she cut through the fabric and fished inside the jacket. Axel watched curiously as she delved deep within the coat with a concentrated frown plastered over her face. Samara suddenly paused and smiled widely. Her hand came out with two pills in her palm.

"What better way to hide pills than in places that can barely be felt when frisked?" She kissed her closed fist and began ripping the jacket to pieces, pieces of fabric and cotton flying around the cell.

Samara counted another twelve pills by the time she finished.

With an easiness she hadn't felt in a while, Samara popped a pill and leaned against the wall, waiting for its numbing effects.

 _Finally…peace._

* * *

The walker collapsed onto the truck's bed with a nauseating squish.

Samara stretched her arms over her head, delighted in the causality in which her body moved. No more pains, no more uncomfortable pangs and no more stiff joints. The Native was just glad to be able to run now without worrying that her bones will illogically pop out.

This is the real reason why she never tried to get clean. Pills worked like a sponge on a chalkboard; they erased all the problems away.

She heard a cynical snort.

Samara's gaze turned to Daryl as he picked up another walker by the shoulders while she grabbed the legs.

"What?" She huffed as they hoisted it up and moved it towards the truck.

"Yesterday you looked like you were about to croak." His sharp eyes regarded her coldly. "Now, you're good as new."

Something about the revolted quality of his tone had Samara narrow her eyes warily. As far as she knew, she did nothing offensive to him recently. "I told you it was a migraine."

"That's no goddamn migraine!" Samara almost jumped out her skin as he practically growled like a werewolf on full-moon. "I'm not an idiot. I know what withdrawals look like. What the hell are you on?"

"Painkillers."

"Why?"

They swung the last walker in the back of the truck and Samara leaned on the side of it as she crossed her arms defensively.

"Do you remember when I fell and almost broke my back in Hampton?" He nodded. "Well, since then, my back is almost in constant pain and I don't mean it feels uncomfortable. No, I mean it's downright _agonizing_ and I have to live with that because there are no real doctors or muscle recuperation therapists anymore. So, to cope with this infernal pain, I've started to self medicate with any painkiller I can find."

Daryl seemed to be struck silent. Even his frown accentuated to the point that the wrinkles on his forehead resembled ripples in a pond. Whatever he was thinking about her—junkie, pill-popper—he was _right_. Samara knew perfectly well that at this point she had become an addict, but it was for a good reason.

"There's got to be another way."

 _I wish there was,_ Samara smiled not amused."I don't see a hospital or a recuperation center anywhere nearby."

"Go to Hershel."

Samara eyed him pointedly. "He's a veterinarian."

"He's more helpful than you think. You can't walk around high." He threw his hands in the air briskly. "The more you take this shit, the more your mind's gonna rot."

"Talking from experience?"

That seemed to stop his oncoming tirade. Samara was not going to stand there and listen to him belittle her for her choices. She did the best with what she had and he had no say in it.

Daryl stood there breathing heavily, apparently torn between snapping at her and staying out of her business.

Samara sighed as she pushed away from the car and closed the tailgate of the truck. "As _touching_ as your concern is, I'm alright with how I am. It's never been a problem before."

In fact, it was the only thing keeping her normal, so her dependence was not born out of want, but _need_. Samara left his side as she headed for the front of the truck. They had the task of driving the bodies away for burning and she wanted to be over with this as quickly as possible. The stench was starting to imbibe into her clothes and Samara didn't want to be doused in the nasty reek of death for the rest of the day.

"Don't mean it can't start now." He called after her as he settled on the driver's seat with her riding shotgun.

Samara sighed as she lazily settled her sunglasses back over her eyes as the motor came alive. "I've already heard every possible outcome from my teeth falling out to death from Michonne and Andrea. And you know what? It doesn't matter."

"Because no matter what we do, we're still gonna die?" Daryl finished her train of thought with precision.

"Exactly."

The hunter shook his head as his hands clenched over the steering wheel. The material of his gloves made the most aggravating squeak as he tried to rein in his temper.

Samara watched his frustration from behind dark lenses with a vacant expression. His worry was…out of the ordinary. Almost as bizarre as when he helped her with the bow—

 _No._

She will not think of _that_. There had been nothing more to it than a lesson in archery and Samara refused to look further into it. This was the smart move to make. She had never attempted to look into Rick's empathy towards her further than that of a friend's and she wasn't about to do it now with _him_ of all people.

* * *

As soon as their work had been done, Daryl departed as fast as possible. There was someone he needed to 'talk' to. The Indian might not put too much thought into her predicament, but he wasn't about to leave it up to the wind. This was too much of a delicate matter—it had the potential to upset the balance of the group and he had no patience for that sort of chaos.

Stepping inside the gym, he found just the two people he wanted to talk to playing basketball.

"You can't play for shit." The sword-wielder laughed as she scored another point.

"Is this one of those 'white people can't jump' things?" Andrea clutched her side as she panted like dog.

"No, you just suck at basketball."

The blonde glared lightly as Michonne smirked in amusement.

"Hey!"

Both women were startled out of their joy as they stared at the appearance of the furious man.

"How long has this shit been goin' on?"

Michonne lost all amusement as she eyed the man's shimmering anger. "What're you talking about?"

"The painkillers."

It then dawned on both women the reason for his angry presence.

"How do you know about that?" Andrea asked incredulously.

"Didn't you see that show yesterday 'cause I sure as hell did?" They would have been ignorant not to. "The shakin', the sweatin', barely eatin' cause I'm sure she would've puked it out if she did. But today, she's happy as a clam. Don't take a genius to figure out she's back on them."

Both women shared a long glance.

Daryl's fingers twitched in frustration as he didn't want their silence, he needed answers. "How often does she take them?" And they better answer because he was livid enough to forget these women were part of the group.

"Once or twice a day, depends on how strong the pain is." Andrea replied as the two women seemingly came to a silent agreement.

"Did she always take only the strong stuff?"

"No." Michonne answered as she rested the basketball on her hip. "When we met her, she was on tamer drugs. Stuff you take when you have a headache, but as the weeks passed her system got used to Ibuprofens so she moved on to stronger ones."

"And you let her?" He actually felt indignation at the casual way the two women treated this situation.

"We're not doctors, Daryl." Andrea crossed her arms in annoyance. "We don't know anythin' about back pains and we couldn't have let her without them. You have _no_ idea how she is without them. This was the only solution we had at the time."

"It ends _here_."

—That wasn't a request. It was an order.

"That's not up to you." Michonne narrowed her eyes, unused to being order around. Even Samara, with all her arrogance, never attempted it.

"And it ain't up to her either! You ain't right in the head if you think this can just keep goin' on!" Daryl suddenly exploded, unable to contain his frustration anymore. The two women stiffened at his raised voice and Michonne reflexively eyed her katana lying on the bench, mentally calculating how long it would take her to reach for it before Daryl could make a move. "What if she gets someone or herself killed one day because she's too high? I ain't riskin' everyone's lives on a drug habit."

They couldn't say his words didn't have a valid point. As much as he hated thinking this, even Andrea must remember how crazy Merle got whenever he 'powdered' his nose. Back then, Daryl had had a rough time restraining his methed-out brother from doing something incredibly idiotic. In response to that memory and all the others before the virus, he didn't want to relapse into that routine again, only this time with the marshal.

Michonne and Andrea looked at each other again and something close to an agreement passed between them.

"We'll handle this."

Daryl was skeptical. The way they handled it until now was proof that they felt comfortable enough to leave the Indian in a state of pill-induced numbness instead of helping her find a different solution. At this point, he was going to give them a chance to make it right, but if they couldn't or wouldn't, he'll intervene and Samara will be the one getting the short end of the stick.

Both women watched the hunter leave, wincing at the long-winded screech of the metal door.

"What the fuck was that?" Andrea was the first to break the silence. "Did you know Samara was tryin' to get off them?"

"Knowing Samara, she was more likely out of pills than off them."

"That idiot!" Andrea spat as she dropped on the bench and took a swing out of her bottled water. "Why didn't she tell us?"

"Since when did she ever tell us about her pills?" Samara never had before which was how the two women came to the realization that Samara's attitude could _actually_ turn for the worse when her system was going through detox. "I knew this day would come. I told her to stop taking pills so casually in front of other people. They wouldn't understand."

"He is right, you know." Andrea quipped as she threw a towel over her head. "I know we didn't have much choice back then, but this is different. She could get off them now."

"And substitute them with what?" Michonne eyed her sardonically. Changing residence hadn't changed anything as far as Samara's problem was concerned. "Does anyone here know kinesiotherapy because I don't?"

"Hershel might."

The sword-wielder scoffed. "Didn't you say he was a vet?"

"I did say _might_."

Although Michonne was the first to admit hating seeing Samara turn herself into a pill receptacle, she was also looking at this situation from a more practical angle. Samara without painkillers was like inviting an ineffective, rabid Tasmanian devil with a broken spine inside your house. If those drugs kept her docile and pain-free why skip them for a less successful result? Samara was alright with this method because she too was a practical woman—she didn't have to like it to live with it.

But…Michonne would be lying if she said she didn't want a better solution. At least then she wouldn't have to worry about the marshal overdosing at any given moment.

"If he has a better way then I'm willing to attempt it." She accentuated the 'if' in that sentence. "The only hard part is coercing that stubborn mule to try."

Andrea agreed. Samara could be impulsive at times, but never when it came to her well-being and detaching herself from her pills would send her into a hell of pain and she wasn't the type to take that chance.

As the blonde mused over the marshal, Michonne kept her gaze on the exit of the gym. That had been a rather strong display of emotion for someone as remote as the archer. From Andrea's tales, those two had bad blood between them from the moment they met so why the sudden heated reaction to Samara's condition.

 _Heh…_

The corners of her mouth twitched as Michonne made a goal out of keeping a closer eye on that man. And here she thought Dixon was just an empty-headed soldier by the sheriff's side.


	11. Go Green

Samara finished lacing up her boots when a shadow befell the door-curtain of her cell.

"Samara, can I come in?"

It was Hershel.

"What is it?" The woman leaned with her elbows on her knees as she watched the old man's shadow, minus a leg. She hadn't woken in the greatest of moods thanks to her recurring nightmares.

"We have to talk about your _problem_."

A stone dropped in her stomach.

 _That bastard! He went running to Hershel at the first chance he got!_

Barely suppressing her internal rage, the marshal marched towards the entrance and sharply pushed the curtain aside. The old veterinarian seemed calm in the face of her rather foul mood.

"Who else knows?"

"Just me."

She waved him inside, cautious of anyone listening in. Hershel waddled in, the soft thump of his crutches attracting Samara's attention.

"Isn't it uncomfortable walking with those things?" She asked as she motioned for Hershel to sit on the chair she improvised out of the defunct toilet. Even after all these days she still couldn't wrap her mind around the loss.

"At first, but use them long enough and it's like havin' another set of legs." Hershel huffed as he sat down and leaned his crutches on the wall. "Makes dancin' easier."

Samara wasn't sure is she should find that amusing so she opted for changing the subject.

"Alright, let's hear your pitch." She sat opposite him on the mattress, patiently awaiting his words. "I'm assuming that's what you're here for—to try and get me on the 'right path'."

"Actually, I'm here to examine your back." The elder man smiled factually. "May I?"

The Native tried to stare past his words and dig into his motives, but try as she might, she couldn't find any deception. The old man was just acting the resident doctor.

"Do I have to take my jumper off?"

"No, just roll it up."

Hershel grunted as he moved to the bed and sat behind the marshal. Samara flinched once the vet's cool fingers touched the skin of her back.

Samara counted the cracks on the wall as she patiently sat through Hershel's clinical inspection, but once his aged fingers kneaded a certain spot, the Native lost her composure and recoiled with a painful hiss.

"You have a slight curve in your spine here." He gently tapped the center of her back. "Haven't you felt it before?"

Samara shook her head.

"How long have you been havin' this pain?"

"Since after that night at the farm. It comes and goes without notice and it's hard to move when it happens."

"Is it cripplin'?"

"Not always. Sometimes it's just a low pounding throughout my spine and, sometimes, I feel like dying would be a better alternative."

"What medication are you on _now_?"

Samara shrugged. "They have no mark on them so they could be any number of painkillers."

Hershel hummed deep in his throat as his mind was weighted down by his thoughts.

"How come you never saw this back then?" If the source of her pain was a malformation he should've been aware of it the last time he inspected her body.

"You didn't have it." The man stared down at the curve thoughtfully. "Your spine had been in a fragile state. You were very lucky you didn't fracture it, that's why I forbade you from exertin' yourself." _'Which you didn't'_ was what was left unspoken. "From what I see you didn't keep up with the treatment after the group split up so your spine repaired on its own unnaturally."

"I didn't have time to think about that." Samara defended herself, suddenly feeling berated. "I had to survive first."

"I'm ain't blamin' you. You did your best; it just so happens it wasn't what you should have done." He tapped the rolled up blouse alerting her that the check-up was finished. Samara turned with her lips pressed into a thin line as she waited for Hershel's verdict.

"Unfortunately, I can't fix it entirely. You'd need a surgical procedure and I'm not equipped to do that. Animals and people may be similar in some regards, but ultimately we are different species. I can't risk damagin' you for the rest or your life or killin' you."

Samara inhaled deeply and, somewhere deep inside, hope shed a tear.

"So I'm doomed."

"Your back might not get fixed, but the pain can be treated in ways that don't revolve around self-medication." Instead of appearing as gloomy as the marshal was, Hershel was equipped with a serene smile. "As you can see, I'm an old man. I get joint aches every now and then, but I learned that a strict exercise regime and massages worked like a charm."

"…Massages?" Somehow she was unconvinced.

"They ease the knots in your inflamed muscles and from what I see they're the primary focus of your ache. Relax them and you'll be more or less fine." He leaned forward as he stared deeply, conveying the seriousness of his words. "Pills ain't the answer, Samara. They don't cure pain, they just mask it."

"You think something that _simple_ could heal me?"

"No."

Samara's shoulders slumped. _I knew it._

"You're still gonna live with the soreness for the rest of your life, but it won't be that strong. A discomfort at best. I'll still need to study up on your problem, but I'm tellin' you, it can be done."

This was not an easy thing to ask, but then again most double-edged swords were as difficult as they sounded. Hershel was asking her to trade a pill-induced numbness for a natural remedy that will still keep her in a state of mild ache. She did not want that. Samara was more than happy to continue her actual treatment, but it was becoming apparent that what she was currently doing was similar to patching up a festering gash with a band-aid.

"And who do you think will be so generous as to give me daily back massages? Even my husband wasn't _that_ bighearted." She could try the two women, but unless it was a life or death situation Samara didn't think they would go for it. They were buddies, but not _that_ kind of buddies.

"Not to gloat, but I am known to give out some of the best back rubs in Georgia."

Samara couldn't keep the smile off her face as she watched the old man's beaming pride. "Hershel, are you trying to seduce me?"

"You surprise me, Samara." He reeled back dramatically. "I'm a virtuous man. I would never think that."

The Native burst into a low chuckle as Hershel smiled in reaction. It was a welcomed relief from the dour mood their conversation took. Not everything had to be so _sinister_ these days. There was always a silver lining to every grey cloud; you just had to look for it.

Samara's smile dimmed as her mind sadistically envisioned herself going into full withdrawal. It wasn't a pretty sight.

"It's going to hurt, right?"

"Yes, it will." Hershel lost his enjoyment as a shadow from long ago darkened his features with unwanted memories. "When I quit drinkin', I wanted the earth to swallow me whole. I would've done anythin' to stop feelin' like I was in Hell, even leave my family so I could keep on drinkin' uninterrupted. It would've been the biggest mistake of my life if I had gone through with that decision."

 _That explained the no alcohol policy on his farm_ , Samara thought.

"But I realized after I woke up in the hospital after a heavy binge that if I continued like this, stumblin' and passin' out drunk wherever I could, I would end up dead somewhere in a ditch and my girls would be left alone, hatin' their father for the rest of their lives." Hershel flinched as that day at the hospital had been worse than actually going through detoxing. Waking up _alone_ to a failing kidney had been a rather harsh wakeup call. The worst part had been the knowledge that his family knew of his hospitalization, but did not deem him worthy enough to visit.

—It had taken many grueling months to regain back their trust.

"You're a strong woman, Samara." He clutched her shoulder resolutely. "You'll get through it, of that I have no doubt."

Samara on the other hand was not so inspired. She did not share Hershel's positivity since reality was much more complicated.

"I need some time to think about this."

The man nodded in understanding.

"Take all the time you need." He took a hold of his crutches and stood up on his leg. "I'm around if you need me for _anythin'_. Don't shy away from askin' for help, alright?"

Samara thanked him and listened until his steps blended in with the background noise to sigh out loud. Her palms covered her face as she tried to alleviate the massive headache she was now confronted with. This is one of the reasons she hated group dynamics—it only took _one_ to destroy the peace.

Her hands slid down to reveal the quiet, livid displeasure Dixon had burdened her with.

* * *

The thin metal rustled as a door was fitted into the chain fence. Daryl had worked on it all day to attach it to the deer pen and it was turning out better than he had hoped. It had been some time since he'd constructed anything with his bare hands and he was relieved to find that he still had the capability.

The next step was building the roof and he was going to need Tyreese's help aga—

 _What the fuck?!_

Daryl cringed in fury and acute pain as fingers were harshly pinching his ear.

"Did you really think that will work?" A pissed off woman hissed in his abused ear as she tugged on it callously. "Gossiping with Hershel like a couple of old biddies at the park?"

If he had been less than who he was, he would have punched the Indian for this indignation.

"Are you crazy? Get off me!"

He caught her wrist in an iron-tight grip, strong enough that her circulation stopped and her fingers slacked. Pushing away from her, Daryl cradled his ear as he eyed the woman. She really had lost her mind this time.

"You do that again I'm gonna shove my foot so far up your ass I'll knock your teeth out from the inside." Daryl threatened as he was seconds away from doing the same to her. He could still feel her sharp fingernails digging into the shell of his ear. "And I never talked to Hershel about nothin', I talked to Andrea and Michonne. Pull on their ears, not mine!"

His 3rd grade teacher once did this and it hadn't hurt half as much as now, but at least he was rewarded with the incredulity on the marshal's face. No doubt she was devising up ways to torture her two women friends, or better said _former_ comrades.

"And I ain't sorry for what I did. It was for all _our_ sake, not just yours." He picked up the pliers he dropped when Samara announced herself so impudently. "I'm not gonna let you risk what we got here because of a drug habit."

"Wow, I'm touched by your concern. _Really_." She was anything but judging by her mocking scowl. "Now, how about in the future you stop feeling worried and mind your own goddamn business, you redneck son of a bitch?"

She ended with a large, fake smile and instantly Daryl was reminded of the familiarity of their situation.

–The harpy was back.

He leaned close enough that he towered over her, a sneer on his lips as their breaths mingled.

" _No_."

Her eyes narrowed to slits. "You are really asking for a punch to the face, aren't you?"

Daryl knew just from the clenching of her hands, the twitch in her left eye and the flaring of her nostrils that she was restraining herself from transcending this verbal argument to a physical one.

"This is my job, Indian. I'm in charge of security here and that means keepin' everyone safe, includin' from _you_."

"I'm not going to end what's left of civilization just because I'm on painkillers, you ass. Get your head straight."

"You should tell yourself that, woman." He retorted back, not willing to take any of her bullshit. "You're the one who's insane if you think I'll let this slide. This ain't some small matter, this could get one of us killed. I'm not gonna let you tear this group apart because your brain's too fogged up to realize what its doing." His eyes narrowed threateningly as he pointed the pliers at her. "And just to jog up your short memory, you _did_ kill someone while fucked out of your mind."

It didn't take long for the Indian to understand his reference—the French doctor. To Daryl's immediate alarm, the memory didn't even make her flinch. Back then, she had shown extreme guilt for taking a human life that never once threatened her, worse one that saved her from death, but now there wasn't even a smidgen of it as she simply stared at him severely.

That _disappointed_ him.

"That was morphine, something I don't touch even if I'm desperate." She defended herself, no trace that she had heard his last phrase. "That shows I'm capable of rational thinking even when under mild influence."

"That's the 'greatest' excuse I ever heard." He snorted unbelieving. "How about you start drinkin' also, mix it up a little. See how long you'll last then."

"Gods, you sound just like a nagging mother hen that it's almost disgusting." Samara rolled her eyes before fixing him with a deathly stare. One he's seen before when they had screamed at each other hoarse in the abandoned house, where ruthless truths were thrown that neither wanted admitted.

"How about you find yourself another person to _fixate_ on and leave me the hell out of it." She poked him in the chest with a pointed nail. "I'm not Sophia for you to save and I sure as shit am not your problem to deal with!"

Silence.

Daryl stilled as his mind stopped on that one word—fixate.

That wasn't—

He _wasn't_ fixated on her. He was…

What was he, really?

Both of them stood in the silence—one angry and the other suddenly vacant.

The hunter swallowed thickly as his mind couldn't even conjure up the proper words to save his life. It was like he was suddenly struck mute and blind at the same time as he couldn't see a way out of this predicament. He had never wanted to trek through a minefield before, yet here he was on a symbolic one which was twice as dangerous.

And the worst part was that she _knew_. How much he didn't know, but enough to make her aware.

He needed to retreat and reformulate his approach. This statue act wasn't in his nature; he'd rather snap back and growl than remain hushed and, regrettably, his throat wasn't cooperating with him at the moment.

"You know what?" He took a step back, finally regaining his voice. "Do whatever the hell you like. Set yourself on fire for all I care, but know this—I'll throw you out of this prison the moment you prove to be a danger to the others, and _that's_ a promise."

"Heh…'One of us', huh?" The woman smirked nastily. "What a crock of shit."

Daryl almost cringed as his own words were thrown back at him with such abhorrence.

"Things change and sometimes not for the better. You wanna do things your own way, fine, but don't expect others to be fine with it."

His words seemed to have struck a chord within her judging by the thoughtful look that struck her. Right now, Daryl didn't have the time to think about the Indian's labyrinth of a mind. He still needed to sort his own first.

"Now, get the hell out of here. I don't have time to waste on you."

She snorted spitefully as she left him to his work, never once turning back.

Daryl tried. He really did try to get back into his work, but no matter what he did, his mind lapsed back to the ugly turn their conversation had taken. As much as he wanted to think differently, he knew that this was the only way it could have happened. There was no doing things peaceful and smoothly, not when it concerned her. Samara seemed to prefer the long and bumpy road and, to be truthful, he wasn't always the most cooperating of men.

With a growl, he threw the pliers away as his nostrils flared with anger. There was a pressure on his brain, making him unable to concentrate past his own self-centered motives.

 _That bitch._ Why couldn't she for once listen to someone other than herself? The Indian should stop being so conceited. She didn't have the right considering her current position. And he wasn't fixated on her, dammit!

Daryl sighed as he raked his fingers through his hair, frustrated. He didn't want to believe that that was the answer because he didn't think he could go down such a steep, treacherous road. But if he wasn't then why was there a small voice in his mind telling him that he was just lying to himself shamelessly.

 _Fuck_ …

He was in way over his head.

* * *

Samara found the two women on the indoor basketball court, playing one on one. How very _nice_ of them.

Andrea scored a point joyfully as the ball bounced forlornly towards the marshal. Picking up the heavy object, Samara threw it from hand to hand as she walked up to the two women.

"Got room for one more?"

"Right on time." Andrea smiled cockily. "Michonne is just about to need some help."

The woman in question responded with a dull, narrowed look. She wasn't impressed with Andrea's newfound skill.

"So, you guys are having fun." Samara nodded with a beaming smile, but if one looked closer, one could see the edge of malice curling her lips. "That's good. I _love_ having fun."

Michonne's silently questioned the dead look in her gaze.

"What's with that face?" Andrea straightened out as she eyed Samara's peculiar look. "You look like you just swallowed a clown."

Michonne was fast enough to avoid the incoming projectile, involuntarily letting the blonde take the brunt of the flying ball.

"Umph!" Andrea spat as she reflexively caught the speeding ball and just as fast dropped it to shake the stinging sensation out of her hands. "What the hell did you do that for?!"

"That's my question." Samara growled as she glared at both women. "Who the hell do you think you are telling Hershel _my_ business? And you!" She pointed at Michonne. "I thought you knew better. This one," She nodded towards the blonde. "I understand with her 'bleeding heart' complex."

"I don't have a bleedin—"

"But you," Samara continued without interruption. "You actually disappointed me. I never once told anyone about your _friends_. I let you fix your own problem, not interfere with it."

Michonne scoffed unimpressed as she crossed her arms. "Get off your high horse, Samara. Not everyone can solve their problems on their own and you are one of those people."

 _That was the_ wrong _thing to say, Michonne._

"So how did it go?" Samara asked deceptively casual. "Daryl came to you and _scared_ you into talking to Hershel? If I knew you were that easy to be put in line I would have done it a long time ago."

"Like hell he did!" Andrea shouted offended. "He was just concerned."

"Pfft. He's being an asshole that's sticking his nose in my business for so called _selfless_ reasons." She accompanied that word with air quotation marks. "I'm not going to stick to the sidelines and watch this happen."

"So, you don't want to find another solution?"

"I told Hershel I'll think about it." Samara exasperatedly raked her fingers through her hair. The anger drained out of her as the majority of it had been used on the hunter and on that throw. "You have no idea what he's asking since you're not the one who's going to _feel_ it. This is not a night of sweating; detoxing is a few days of shaking, stomach burning, vomiting, nausea, vertigo, painful cramping muscles and other things that are too disgusting to talk about. I'll be reduced to a slobbering, sobbing mess."

Michonne gave her a deadpan look. "So, it's better to just slowly deteriorate until all you can think about is painkillers?"

"No!" Samara had laid awake at night thinking over her fate and that was the worst case scenario she could think of. Even worse than death by walkers. "Look, I wish there was something better, but there _isn't_. Even Hershel admitted that his method won't repair me entirely, just wash the pain down enough for me to function."

"That sounds better than what you're doing now."

"Easy for you to say. You're not the one in my shoes."

"What exactly is Hershel's suggestion?" Andrea was curious of the vet's opinion.

Samara remained silent as she stared at them uncomfortably.

"Massages and pillates."

Andrea was the first to break the awkward silence with a snort then a chuckle until finally she exploded in full-blown laughter.

"I'm sorry, it's just…" She wiped the tears from her eyes. "You better hope he has some lotion to go with that."

Michonne smirked as she watched the blonde heave between laughs. She sounded like a dog's squeaky toy.

"That's great." Samara sunk her nails into her palms to rein the temptation of strangling the blonde. "Laugh, you harpies."

With a sharp turn, Samara walked away from the duo, unwilling to be the butt of their jokes. Hurried steps followed and Andrea caught her by the upper arm.

"Look, _sorry_. I didn't mean it."

"Yes, you did." She shook the hand off.

Andrea bit her lip to stop herself from smiling further and cleared her throat. "The _point_ is, you should really consider Hershel's option. Daryl had a point, if you could get so intoxicated that you won't be able to think clearly, you _will_ make a mistake that could cost someone their life."

"Have I ever done that before?" Samara incredulous gaze traveled between the two women. "Did I ever make you feel like I wasn't in full control? Did you fear for your life around me even when I was self-medicating?"

"No, but it doesn't mean it can't happen." Michonne interjected pointedly. "I'm not convinced either that Hershel's method is better, but on the off-chance it is, you should go for it."

"…It's not that easy, Michonne."

The sword-wielder understood.

"You're afraid, aren't you?" If she had been in Samara's place she would be also.

"Of course I am. This is going to _hurt_. We're not just talking about detoxing, Michonne. I'll have to live with the pain in my back until the withdrawals cease and that could be _days_." Days of choking on pain because every movement sent electric jolts up her spine and into her brain. "It isn't a pretty combination."

"Then look at it on the long run—you won't need to scavenge for pills anymore and you know how hard it is to find them. The only thing you'll have to worry about is a bit of daily stretching."

Samara cursed as she paced around the room, her boots echoing on the empty court. Hershel's method could backfire in so many ways that she didn't even want to consider. The strain put on it would bring her to the edge of madness.

"I don't know if I'll be able to go through with it." Her voice shook as she actually felt sweat gathering at her temple.

"You won't be alone, Samara." Andrea huffed. "If you two hadn't been there for me when I was sick, I would've been dead a long time ago. We helped each other overcome obstacles we couldn't on our own. Let others take care of you for once."

Samara grimaced as she hugged herself. _Oh Gods, I can't believe I'm actually contemplating this._

Realistic speaking, Hershel's way was a less strenuous path, but it was more ineffective than her current one. Which was worse—dangerous expeditions for pills and possible overdoses or living with a gradient of pain that could possibly impair her movements? On a scale, she wished she could say it was the latter.

A strangled choke came from the back of her throat as she clutched at half of her face. Samara didn't want to look at the two women as she nodded reluctantly with such repulsion she could almost taste it.

 _May the Gods have mercy on me._

* * *

Morning came and Samara sat in Cell Block B with Hershel. She was stripped of her guns, machete, knife and miniature Swiss-army knife she kept inside her boot in a cut in the fabric. Also, her laces were gone as well as her belt and anything else that could be used in harming herself.

As Hershel was preparing her for the next several days, a shadow appeared in the doorway of the cell.

 _Damn, here comes 'dad' and his_ caring _rant._

"You feelin' alright?" Rick stepped inside the cell and assumed his 'sheriff mode', complete with a disapproving frown.

"For the moment."

"You should have said somethin'. We could have helped you, Samara. That's why we're a group."

"I like to handle my own problems, Grimes, not broadcast them to everyone. My trouble is nobody's business."

"And look _where_ that got you."

She glared.

"I didn't like taking them, you know?" The woman sighed deeply as Hershel took her pulse. "Knowing that getting through my day meant being dependent on numbing pills was not something I was proud of, but I didn't have a choice."

"You don't have to explain yourself to me, Samara." Rick lost some of the frustration as he knew that she had risked a lot by consciously undergoing a self-medicated treatment. "These days, we do what we can with what we have at hand. If painkillers were your only answer I'm not gonna say you were wrong. They kept you alive so far."

Hershel said nothing as he silently worked, but his thoughts were screaming of the exact opposite.

The woman instead was left in awe of Grimes' unusual understanding. It was severally unexpected. "And here I thought you were coming here to scold me."

"Would it help if I did?"

"Did it ever?"

Rick smirked. _No, it didn't._ The reason why he didn't attempt it even though his gut was clawing at him to scold her until she buried her head in the sand like an ostrich.

The moment Hershel broke out the news, the unmistakable urge to break something grew inside him more urgent than ever before, but Rick knew that the moment he started berating her, she would withdraw.

"Alright, this is your last visitor." Hershel wrote her pulse on a notebook. The first in many in the next few days. "If you have anythin' else to say, say it while you're still able."

Samara shook her head. She had said everything she wanted to the few people that mattered—mainly Michonne and Andrea who she was still mad at—and refused to meet the other's pity.

Rick took a step back as he gave Samara one last look. "I'll keep the others from tryin' to visit you. They don't need to see you like that."

"Thank you."

Samara listened to Rick's departing footsteps until the door to the block closed behind him with a rusty screech. She huffed in bewildered amusement as she reeled over the calm and rational discussion the two just shared. That hadn't happened in…well, never. Both former lawmen had always crossed blades whenever a situation demanded their opinion and they always differentiated to the point of exchanging harsh, insulting blows.

"Carol or myself are gonna be present here at all times to watch over you in case your situation deteriorates unexpectedly or you try hurtin' yourself."

Samara grimaced as the thought of having that woman anywhere near her almost sent her into a rage induced spiral. The marshal refused to be at the mercy of such an untrustworthy woman, especially one that Samara insulted and belittled not too long ago.

—Grim end scenarios floated inside her mind.

"Can't _you_ just do it yourself?"

"I have to sleep sometime, Samara. If you're worried about Carol's competence, don't. I have full trust in her capabilities."

Maybe if things had turned out differently, she would've believed Hershel's sincerity.

"Let's just get this over with."

* * *

Sixteen hours into withdrawals and Samara was vomiting without an end in sight.

This is an all new low, Samara though as she wiped her mouth of the saliva dribbling down her chin. Here she was, hugging an out-of-use prison toilet, puking her guts out and no matter what she did, she couldn't get rid of the sensation of being dunk in ice cold water.

Her hazy vision slid over to her caretaker. Hershel had changed guard a few hours ago and now Carol had the distinguished pleasure of watching her make a mess of herself.

"Oh, I bet you're enjoying this."

Carol sighed from her chair in front of the closed cell. "I'm not."

"Bullshit." She grunted as her cheek rested on her arm. Her forehead was so damp, that she soaked the sleeve in no time. "If I were in your shoes, I'd probably laugh."

"Sorry to disappoint you, Samara, but there's no pleasure in seeing you or anyone in such a state."

The marshal scoffed, turning away from the older woman. There was a sour taste in her mouth and it wasn't all from the acid in her stomach.

"How long will you keep avoiding me?"

"For as long as I still breathe. You disgust me."

"What do you want from me, Samara? To apologize for saving my own life? Should I have thrown myself in front of the walkers instead?"

"Yes, because frankly I don't see a reason for you to still be alive. You're one of those people that live off the backs of others because you're too afraid to do it on your own."

Carol smiled hollowly. "You're right about that. I lived my whole life for others and that was what defined me—a mother, a wife. That was all I thought I was, but I'm neither anymore. I'm myself now."

"A cunt?"

She grimaced for a second before resuming her calm demeanor. "You don't even know me anymore, Samara. I'm not that woman from back at the farm that balked at the sight of a walker. I'm not saying that I've suddenly become GI Jane, but I'm no longer willing to sit on the sidelines and watch others die for me. What T-Dog did, sacrificing himself even though he was already marked for death, changed my approach on everything."

" _Good_ for you." Samara sneered, not impressed by the woman's bravado. "So why don't you do that somewhere as _far_ away from me."

The woman's lips contorted in disappointment. Carol knew the chance of ever redeeming the steady relation between them was low, but she still had hoped that Samara would at least treat this with a speck of seriousness.

"I'm not trying to change your mind, Samara. You believe what you want. I'm just telling you how it is."

"And I'm _really_ not interested." The Native growled, sick of hearing her voice. "Can you please shut up now? I want to suffer in silence."

Carol was insane if she thought her meaningless words would change her mind. If Samara ever got the chance to remain solo with her, she swore she would throw her to the walkers in a heartbeat.

Samara had no mercy for people that tried to get her killed via their stupidity.

* * *

The hours passed and the darker part of detoxing began. At this point, Samara was vomiting, shaking, sweating with excruciating abdominal cramps.

She moaned as she held her stomach, tears streaming down her cheeks. All her muscles were grinding against each other like sandpaper and Samara thought she could see the light at the end of the tunnel.

Time was lost to her in this small concrete box. There was no window, no clock, nothing to tell time and her guardians weren't willing to give her a hint. They wanted her to concentrate on herself and not the world outside her little bird cage.

Except for Hershel and Carol, she had seen neither hide nor hair of the others. Grimes was holding to his promise of keeping her treatment to just the three of them. While she was grateful, maybe having some company other than the aging man and _her_ would put Samara at ease.

 _Oh Gods…Fuck!_

Samara's eye rolled into the back of her head as a particular series of muscular cramps transported her across the universe.

She wanted painkillers! She wanted the pain to end!

 _Oh Gods, kill me!_

Her brain was on fire. Samara practically felt the neurons burning away to ash in her skull and with it, the power of rational thinking. Flashes of days forgotten rolled before her like an old movie. She could even hear the click of the reel turning as her mind locked onto the memory of the last time she saw her father. She was leaving for another tour of duty because of his want for her to remain in Arizona, find a safer job and start a family. Like the obstinate daughter she had always been, Samara refused to hear him and parted ways through an argument.

 _Dad, help me! I'll stay home! I won't go across the globe anymore! Just_ please _make it stop!_

The image of her father exploded into dust as the bright, harsh colors of Arizona washed away to the grey and dead atmosphere of winter in Georgia. Samara walked through a silent, withered field with Andrea and Michonne pulling on the two walkers. The air was eerily claustrophobic with only the crunch of their boots and the shuffle of the walkers heard across the dead field.

Those were the simple times—just the three of them wandering the open world with nobody to care for but themselves. How Samara pined for those days now that everything had become so much more complicated.

 _Michonne! Andrea! Please free me from this fucking insanity!_

But the women remained deaf to her plea. Their forms suddenly evaporated into white smoke as the fields were replaced with a concrete jungle of charred buildings and abandoned vehicles. There was a man riding a horse towards the remnants of the skeleton city. The Lone Ranger going wordlessly to his execution.

 _Rick! Don't go there! Nothing good will come out of finding_ them _! Only suffering!_

The world turned to black. She gasped as familiar surroundings came into focus. She was back in Dale's RV, lying on one of the beds with a shadowy form standing over her. Samara didn't feel threatened by the presence; it actually felt soothing in its gruffness. That was why she reached out to it and gripped its callous hand. Samara traced the faint, deep rooted scars scattered over the man's palm with gentleness.

How did she know it was a man?

And why was it that she felt she knew this person?

 _Ah…Hunter._ _Is that you?_

The image slowly blended into the background and peaceful darkness finally reigned.

* * *

Daryl entered Cell Block B for the first time since Samara had been smuggled inside three days ago and despite his initial objective to remain cool and calculated, Daryl hadn't been able to keep his promise.

—He had been the one to instigate this. He might at least check up on her health.

As he climbed to the second floor he saw Carol outside of a cell speaking with someone in hushed tones. The woman noticed his approach and nodded with a smile. Daryl returned the nod and observed the goings of the cell—Hershel was crouching on the floor, looking underneath the bunk bed.

He gave the woman a questioning glance.

"Samara's under there and Hershel's trying to coax her out." She explained with a concerned furrow to her brow.

Somehow Daryl understood the Indian's predicament. "She delusional?"

"Has been since yesterday, but she didn't do much except mutter to herself."

Daryl tipped his head towards the woman as a dark tinge on her skin caught his eye. Carol didn't even try to hide the obvious shiner on her cheek. Without words, Daryl demanded an explanation.

"Samara tried to escape by playing dead so we had a bit of a fight."

"You…" The hunter frowned skeptically. " _Won_?"

Carol smiled at the man's incredulous disbelief. If only. "Samara would have if she hadn't hit her head against the bunk-bed. Gave me enough time to slip out."

The man sighed reproachfully. "I warned you not to go in there. She could've killed you."

"I know, but she was convincing." She couldn't have risked it if it had been real.

Daryl walked from her side and approached Hershel who was taking the woman's pulse. His pale blue eyes slipped to him for a mere second before focusing back on the Indian.

"Daryl, can you help me in gettin' her out from underneath the bed? I'm afraid Samara's not cooperatin' with me."

Daryl nodded as he crouched down and followed Hershel's gaze.

 _Damn, she looks like hell._

Samara was folded into a fetal position with wide, frenzied eyes going in and out of focus. There was a thin slither of saliva in the corner of her mouth, dripping onto the cold floor. He wasn't sure if the Indian had half a mind to notice his presence, but judging by her shiny, dilated pupils Daryl was almost sure her mind was on another planet.

"How long she been like this?"

"A few hours now." Hershel sighed as he sat against the wall.

Daryl took off his crossbow and placed it above the bed. Lying on his stomach, the hunter reached for the woman and moved the disheveled hair from her pale face. He's seen people deep into withdrawal before, it shouldn't upset him so much, but seeing this woman in the same position as those low-life assholes he and his brother used to hang out with left a bad taste in his mouth.

"I'm gonna move you, alright?"

There was no sign that she heard him.

Daryl slipped halfway underneath the bed intent on grasping her by the upper arms. As his hands touched her heated skin, her eyes flickered and focused on him. Daryl flinched for a moment as those wide eyes stared intently, reminding him of a catatonic walker.

Strengthening his resolve, he began pulling the Indian out. She needed help and this wasn't the time for him to balk at the first sign of discomfort. Samara groaned feebly as even the minutest movement had her on pins and needles.

Daryl paused as he watched unstable, spidery fingers grab his wrist and squeeze weakly. Her lips were mouthing out words and Daryl had to strain his hearing to listen.

"Can you hear it?"

"What?"

"The crying. Lori's baby is crying." The whites of her eyes were littered with crimson veins. "Why isn't she or Rick taking care of it? Did they lose it?"

"Baby's still in the womb, Samara." Daryl sighed as he gauged the extent of her delusions. "You're hallucinatin'."

"But I can _hear_ it."

"It's in your head." He pulled her closer to him. "Come on. You need to get off the floor."

She shook her head, uncooperative. "I don't believe you. I can hear it scratching the walls. It goes in intervals of exactly eight minutes and thirty-eight seconds. I know because I counted." Daryl frowned deeper as her chipped nails sunk into his wrist. "I think the baby's trying to escape. We can't let that happen. You need to tell the parents."

"I will if you come out from there."

Samara's breath hitched as her eyes flitted about the small, dark enclosure. She seemed to finally come to the realization as to her obscure location. Her gaze slipped back to him and she licked her dry, chapped lips. "You promise?"

His hand gently caught a hold of her own. They seemed so thin and veiny that Daryl wanted to force feed her until some meat grew on them. His gaze landed back on her gaunt features and the hunter knew that there was still more to come and she had to go on this path alone.

"Yeah, I promise."

With one last pull, Daryl dragged her out and helped her shivering body onto the bed. The woman appeared even more ghoulish in the light of day, giving Daryl's stomach a churn.

Hershel nodded in gratitude as he sat on the bed and gently pushed Samara to lie on the mattress. The woman kept her eyes on him, but Daryl was unable to uphold her gaze for long. It spoiled his image of the marshal and he did not wish to remember her like this.

"It isn't easy, is it?" Carol gripped her arms as she stared at the once-prideful woman reduced to a sack of sagging flesh and bones.

"It's just temporary." Daryl arranged his crossbow over his back, keeping his mind off the sad state the Indian was in.

"I hope so."

The hunter lit up a cigarette once he was outside of Cell Block B and leaned tiredly against the bridge's chain fence. His fingers dug into the inner corners of his eyes as the image of Samara's lackluster skin, tangled hair and stretched out features came to mind. She looked a far cry from her original self and Daryl swore that he had almost acted on the impulse to run as far away from that ghastly shell as possible.

Dammit, he should have stayed away because now he knew he wouldn't forget that image for a long, _long_ time.

* * *

 _ **Author's note:**_ Just for those wondering if I'm bashing some characters, I have nothing against Carol or Lori for that matter. They're just stuck with the perception Samara has of them. I'm trying to see both side's reasons and their viewpoints. I don't know if I'm getting it right, but one can only hope.


	12. Imaginary Friends

Eyelids fluttered.

A groan resonated from the woman lying on the bunk bed. With great difficulty, she threw her arm over her eyes as a bright light invaded her vision, burning her retinas.

"Welcome back."

Samara squinted through the camp lantern's light as Hershel walked inside her cell and hung it on the bed's iron support. He sat on the mattress and Samara felt the light prodding on her skin as he checked her vitals.

"How long…has it…been?" Talking proved to be just as difficult as her throat and the interior of her mouth was as dry as sandpaper.

"Four days." Hershel said as he listened to her heartbeat.

She could feel it. Everything in her body hurt, from her bones to the tip of her nails. Even the smallest of efforts had her cringe in pain. As of now, every inch of her back was now a low-pounding minefield and someone was systematically triggering each and every one like a complete doucehbag.

This is what she feared…this paralyzing sensation with no hope of movement.

 _Did I really make the right choice?_

"…Water."

Hershel opened the bottle next to the bed and tipped the clear liquid slowly to her lips. The first sip had her sputtering and choking.

"Slow now."

Licking her wet lips, Samara settled back on her pillow and tried to lie as still as possible. She felt so tired. More tired than she had ever been before. Even the effort of keeping her eyes open was overwhelming.

"Is it over?" _Please Gods, let it be._

"Almost."

The woman flinched as she tried not to sink into despair. She wanted 'done' not 'almost'.

"I want…out of this cell." Her words shook with each breath. The Native wanted sunshine and the warmth of the sun on her skin. This small concrete box was cold and emotionless, and had become too familiar for her liking. Now she understood why some prisoners lost their minds as the years went by. Living in the same small cage every single day for many years or your whole life was nothing short of madness.

As Hershel finished his inspection, he leaned away from her with a fatherly, lukewarm smile.

"Your vitals are stabilizin' and your pulse is close to normal. You'll experience headaches and phantom nausea in the next few days, so don't be alarmed. But all in all, you'll be alright." He patted her hand gently as his smile widened. "Congratulations, Samara. You got through."

She tried to join in the man's revelry, but her facial muscles hurt badly. The most she could muster up was a faint grimace.

This was good, right? She was finally free of her dependence.

Things will start getting easier from now on…right?

* * *

The first week had been the worst.

Samara panted as she ran outside the prison, circling the buildings in the cool morning air. She had made a habit of running every morning before Hershel swooped in with his magic hands, but even as she tried to keep her mind solely on the sound of her boots hitting concrete, the Native's focus was still on the cravings of her body. There were days were she wanted to climb the walls using her teeth and days where she seriously considered breaking her new regime. It took considerable pains not to throw away all the hard work up until now based on a temporary whim.

…At least her appetite was slowly regaining its existence and food no longer tasted like ash.

Hershel had been a real help. He had created a schedule composed of Pilates, exercises and his massages…he really was _good_ at it. As for the cravings, Hershel had suggested chocolate or candy to subside them, but Samara was allergic to chocolate and she'd never had much of a sweet tooth. Cigarettes had been the next item, but the prison was currently lacking in them and the five month absence had her abstain from starting that particular habit once more.

 _Huff. Huff._

She had gotten closer to the old man. During their exercises, they spent their time talking about agriculture and he had promised to teach her how to farm once they started the garden. He seemed to be truly excited about having a willing student. His daughters had never been excited about cropping fields or cultivating the fruits of their labor.

 _Huff. Huff. Wince._

The pain wasn't as acute as it had been before, but there was still a high degree that sometimes had her with tears in her eyes. The occasional shriek had stopped two days ago and little by little she was getting to an acceptable tolerance, but there was still that constant reminder in her spine that told her she wasn't out of hazardous waters yet.

Hershel said that in her case time was needed to get accustomed to this new lifestyle. He was hoping that within a month, Samara would be fit enough for any activity without hindrance. Right now, she was able to do menial tasks, anything hard like supply runs were out of the question.

But one thing was for sure—Hershel was positive with the results.

As she turned the corner of the building she saw the door to the prison open and Daryl step outside. Despite his notice of her, his stride did not break.

"Where are you heading off to?" She asked as he passed her towards the direction she came from. It was early in the morning, early enough that dew was still clinging onto grass.

He was still irate with her. At that time, she had been angry and her words stemmed from her defensive instincts, but she had meant them. If his response was to pout and avoid her then that was his prerogative.

"Gonna see if a deer got caught in the cage." He responded frostily.

 _Ah, the cage._

During her recuperation, he had built a cage intended to catch deer alive and set it up on an undisclosed location beyond the prison's fences. She really had wished she had been present during its construction. Who knew when knowledge like that was ever needed?

"Next time you're going, I'm coming with you."

Daryl gave her a fleeting glance before he kept on walking with Samara right on his tracks.

"Shouldn't you be takin' it easy?"

"I'm not going to relapse if I _walk_ through a forest." She eyed the glum building as a tremor overcame her hands. "I need to get away from the prison for a little while. I feel stir crazy."

"Last time you felt like that, you ended up with a nearly broken back."

She frowned as memories of Hampton came to mind. "It's not _that_ kind of stir crazy."

There was an uncomfortable stretch of time before Daryl spoke again. His voice had lost some of the harsh edge, opting for a more pensive one.

"Thinkin' about them?"

"Every day." Nails pressed against her palms to stop the shiver from increasing. "I have highs and lows and some of those lows start so unexpectedly that it's a struggle 'staying on the wagon' so to say. I always thought that detoxing would be the hardest part, but now I _know_ that staying clean is the actual struggle." She _despised_ this situation; that it had to happen. To know that she was being watched every moment of her waking hours was nothing less than detestable. She made one move towards the medical ward and Hershel or one of her companions would be there to block her path.

They didn't trust her to stay clean. It was an apt response when it concerned druggies—the doubt that they had the willpower to stay on the path.

It was moments like these that made the Native grateful that her temper had improved, otherwise she would have attacked them on the spot.

"Is it always this hard?" She asked curiously.

Daryl shrugged. "Never had to go cold turkey."

"Really?"

He turned, exasperation written all over his face. "Because I'm a redneck I'm supposed to be a junkie also?"

"If the shoe fits."

The man's lips contorted.

Samara sighed. She really tried to refrain herself from annoying him, but a jab or two always managed to slip. It was an old habit that still brought some measure of delight at seeing him on edge, but the thought of slipping back into it had her on pins and needles. She could banter with the two women all she wanted and never take it to heart, but it was different with Dixon. History proved it.

"I just thought that since you realized what I was going through, you must have gone through it as well." She reformulated her answer, hoping to placate the disturbed waters. "Besides, you did have those Doxy's with you when we met. No offense, but hospitals don't give out those sorts of painkillers in a _vitamin_ bottle."

"My brother was the one that liked his drugs too much. Tried to lay off 'em once, but changed his mind two hours into it. Said that stayin' clean wasn't for him."

Is this why he had been so obsessed with her dependence? Because it reminded him of his brother's situation?

 _His brother_ … _What was his name again?_

She remembered T-Dog telling her the man's story, but his name escaped her entirely. Her brain must have forgotten that information, deeming it unnecessary to remember like all useless information was.

It didn't matter. She had no interest in a dead man. Those living were of more concern.

They arrived at the outer fence, at the gap that had been created the first time the group reached the prison. As Daryl busied himself with untying the cord keeping the gap closed, Samara eyed him closely. After she had gotten out of Cell Block B he had avoided remaining alone with her in the same room. She had imagined that the moment she got even a foot near him, his loose temper would have him run like a scalded cat.

 _Still avoiding problems, I see._

"So, can I come along or do I have to go on my own?" She asked as Dixon passed through the open gap onto the other side.

The hunter's shrewd gaze had Samara keep her ground with her head held proudly high.

He shook his head as he snorted softly. " _Sure_."

His answer was more mocking than anything, but she took what she could get.

As she worked on lacing up the opening, Daryl noticed the minute discomfort as she constantly straightened her back.

"You alright?"

"Yeah, I just have to keep my back straight at all times. Hershel says I shouldn't bend it too often, at least for the time being." She pushed her hand into the small of her back and heard a small pop _._ "I swear I need to tape a goddamn pole there."

Dixon said nothing as he gave the Native one last look before walking away and disappearing into the withered overgrowth.

Samara sighed in relief. For a moment there she had been worried he would say no. While going on her own was relatively fine, she would have liked to see the location of the cage.

Damn, all of this frostiness because she couldn't keep her big mouth shut.

Why the hell did she have to go and shout _that_ out? That was the reason the hunter was so distant now. She called him out on his odd behavior and he was now retreating for the cover of their old grudge. Samara should have been more careful with her words. Nothing good came out of annoying that man.

But it was true, wasn't it?

She wanted to deny it with all her heart, but even she couldn't allow herself to be that oblivious. The man had an _odd_ fascination with her, like Grimes used to with saving her from herself. She hadn't been a hundred percent sure, not until she blurted it out and watched Daryl's palpable reaction to it. That was when he confirmed it and, Gods, did she want to run for the hills. Sentimentality was not her forte even these days and even less when such sentimentality had this _particular_ man in the diagram.

She just hoped his reason was anything other than what usually brought men and women together. That was how far her awareness went. Pass that and she was back in denial territory.

 _Gods, why the hell do I keep attracting these kinds of people?_

* * *

Rustle.

Russet fingers languidly ghosted over the yellowed-out pages of a novel. Samara was in the library, sitting on the cold floor with numerous books strewn around her. She had been looking through them for the better part of the hour for anything useful for her livelihood, but it seemed the prison had a limited genre—law books and, surprisingly, romance were the most prominent.

At least this would keep her occupied until her guard shift started later.

A door opened in the distance and Samara listened to the steps that strolled inside. She tried to gauge the identity of the visitor, but it was unattainable. Michonne and Andrea were the only living humans on Earth that she could recognize by sound alone. Everyone else was lost to her.

"Samara, you in here?"

Grimes.

"Second row on the left." The woman dropped her book in her lap as she waited for the man's appearance.

Rick peeked from the corner of the bookshelf and his eyes found her immediately.

"What is it?" She asked as his tense form and twitching fingers caught her immediate attention.

 _Something was wrong._

"I need to talk to you about somethin'." He crouched down to her level, absentmindedly perusing the book's titles at her feet.

"I didn't do it."

The man paused. "What?"

"I'm assuming this is about something I've done."

Rick huffed before cracking a small smile. "You know, Samara, not everythin' is about _you_."

"And here I thought otherwise judging from that pissed off expression on your face." Now she was really intrigued. He wanted advice from her on matters, was that it?

"This is _serious_."

The Native conceded under the man's grave frown.

"How well do you trust Michonne?"

Samara blinked. _What?_

"She's the Ying to my Yang." The woman pushed the book from her lap and straightened out, suddenly heavily focused on the man before her. "What's this about, Grimes? Did Michonne do something?"

"Not yet."

Those two words had been spoken so ominously that it had the fine hairs on Samara's arm stand to attention.

"Is Michonne…" Grimes paused as he turned over in his head the best way to phrase his thoughts. He sighed as he scratched his head in frustration. "Have you ever heard her think out loud or just…talk?"

 _Oh, shit._

"Because I went by her cell just now and Michonne was discussin' somethin' with no one in there." There was an accusatory shine in his eyes as he searched for any faults in her demeanor. He needed to be reassured that it wasn't what he was thinking. "She was sayin' somethin' about not caring of others opinions and some other things I couldn't really hear. Said she was just thinkin' out loud, but I don't believe it. It looked like she was havin' a one-sided conversation which only she could hear the answers to. "

 _Dammit, Michonne. You had to go and to_ that _, didn't you?_

"Don't worry about it." Samara hoped she could convince Grimes to let it slide for now. She did not want to explain herself what ailed Michonne. It was…complicated.

"Samara, what's goin' on? If your friend's sick in the head, I need to know—"

She raised her hand to stop him from further speaking. "Grimes, there's _nothing_ to worry about. Michonne is not crazy. If she was, do you honestly think I would have traveled with her for so long?"

Grimes looked unconvinced.

"I know you don't have many reasons to, but just _trust_ me on this." She really did hope he would let her do it her way. If he marched over to Michonne right now and confronted her again, or worse Andrea, the woman was likely to stab someone. Being questioned of her past was something she responded severely to when it was done by a stranger. "Let me handle this my way."

The former sheriff exhaled heavily as he raked his hand through his outgrown hair. He didn't like this, that much was obvious from his frustrated expression. She understood his plight. Samara herself had been in his place many months ago when she learned of Michonne's _particularities_.

"If somethin' happens, she's your responsibility. I already had my fill with Tomas and Andre. I don't need another murderin' lunatic locked up with us in here."

Samara scrunched up her nose. "Who said anything about that? Michonne's not crazy. And you're really not the person to tell me how to handle my friends, all things considered."

Rick's jaw locked tight, making his teeth click against one another.

The Native waited for a backlash, even a curse or two, but he said nothing. That had been a low blow and Samara was well aware of that. She might have chiseled her claws, but her teeth were still as sharp as ever. Nevertheless, the only visible reaction the man showed was a deepening of his frown and a minute flash of melancholy.

Samara huffed, a slither of guilt piercing her conscience. Maybe she went too far with that one.

"I would appreciate it if you'd keep this incident to yourself." She picked up the book she had thrown away, her voice taking on a more detached quality. "There's no need to create unnecessary suspicions."

"Fine."

As she heard the door close behind him, Samara threw the book away in anger. She didn't need this on her plate. She had her own problems to deal with.

The Native grumbled as she stared at the opposite bookshelf with a scowl.

Why couldn't Michonne just talk in her head like a normal person?

* * *

Samara found the woman outside the prison, practicing her katas. The orange and red hue reflecting off the blade created a rainbow across her sunglasses and blinded her for a moment.

Michonne paused for a moment as she spotted the Native before regaining her footing.

"Still want to learn how to swing a blade?" She asked between breaths, her muscles flexing underneath her pullover.

"No, I prefer my long-distance weapons." Samara leaned against a rusty, metal barrel as she pushed her sunglasses over her forehead. She just hoped Michonne would be in a cooperating mood today and not shut down on her. "You need to be more careful, Michonne. Of all the people that had to stumble on your _little_ secret just be lucky it was Grimes. The others would have reacted more strongly."

Michonne froze mid-swing, her form tense. With a heavy exhale she let her arms lower and faced her companion with her characteristic grimness.

"I see he already came running to you."

Her shoulders rose expectantly. "Can you blame him?"

The sword-wielder cursed as she stood as still as a statue, her eyes the only indicator of life. They told of a mind moving at a hundred miles per hour assessing a situation from all possible angles.

 _Lawyers…_

She looked up suddenly.

"Does Andrea know?" Her eyes widened as the frenzy accentuated. "Tyreese?"

"Think clearly for a second." Samara's calm voice anchored the woman from sailing off the edge. "If those two knew, what would their first instinct be?"

Samara could see from her stabilizing breath that she came to the same conclusion that both would have come to her demanding answers.

"You're safe for now, but Rick _will_ want an explanation." She crossed her arms, already dreading that moment. It will be a tough one to explain without making Michonne appear crazy.

"I _can't_." Michonne shook her head resolutely as her voice strained to the point of breaking. "I'm not ready to talk about _that_ with others. It's hard enough that you know, I don't need more joining. They wouldn't understand."

"Hell Michonne, I hardly understand, but I learned to adapt to it." Samara sighed as she tried to placate the upset woman. "You can't blame him for being freaked out. I _was_ when I first saw you talking to yourself."

The woman snorted. "I remember since you threatened me with a gun."

Samara shrugged again, not at all apologetic. "I wasn't about to sleep next to a possibly mentally unstable woman. I'd rather be cautious than dead."

Michonne said nothing as she paced across the frozen pavement, still not entirely composed. Samara swore that for someone who didn't value other people's opinions, she sure cracked when others found out traits that defined her. Then again, if Samara had been in her position, she would also be understandably agitated. This was not an easy burden to carry.

She wondered why now of all times? To her knowledge, Michonne had stopped talking to her dead boyfriend many months ago, during the time she started opening up to her and Andrea. Samara hoped this wasn't a sign of regression because that would destroy all the progress she had made over the last eight months.

"What's brought this on, Michonne? I thought you said those times were gone."

Michonne turned towards the descending sun and let its faint warmth wash over her. As she stood basking in its orange hue, she breathed in and out as deeply as possible. She needed to clear her head and Samara obliged her as she waited patiently.

"It helps from time to time, you know." She still didn't turn, preferring to stare into the dying light. "I _miss_ him. Even when Mike was with me, he wasn't really. It was just a monster wearing his face."

The woman huffed as her expression morphed into self-deprecation.

"You want to know why I started talking to him again? It's because I realized yesterday that I don't remember what his voice sounds like." Michonne tightened her grip on her arms, unable to come to terms with her weakness. "Even his face…it gets blurred between the Mike I know and the walker I carried around for almost eight months. I'm afraid I'm going to forget him completely one day."

Samara understood her friend's plight as she was in the same boat. Her husband and father had all but evaporated from her mind without the presence of the photos being a constant reminder. Without those souvenirs of a forgotten past, they had become just corpses that she had to climb over to keep on living this retched half-life and, sometimes, when the situation struck a chord within her she would remember that such people existed—the ones labeled father and husband. Friends. In-laws. Coworkers.

From the most precious people in her life they had been reduced to just background noise. To be remembered only when convenient.

Such a retched thing the brain was.

"I thought that maybe if I talked to him like I used to I could hear his voice, but…" Michonne paused as she licked her dry lips, keeping her voice as steady as possible. "It wasn't him, just a man's voice that seemed familiar yet foreign at the same time. Like all the men's voices I've heard all my life up until now mashed up together to create this distorted sound."

The sword-wielder swallowed thickly as she shook her head to rid herself of the demons inside.

 _Not so easy, is it?_

"What's brought this on?" Samara asked as she tried to understand the underlining root of this entire dilemma.

Michonne pressed her lips tightly. Whatever was on the woman's mind weighted heavily on her conscious. Samara hadn't been in touch with her two companions for some time as she had been more concerned with her own state of mind. Michonne was bothered by something, probably had been for a while now, but Samara hadn't noticed.

This is why a smaller group was better. This way you always looked after the one next to you, physically and mentally, but with a larger group you didn't always have to. There was always someone else who could do it. But Michonne was a different case—she adhered strictly to who she knew. Trust was something earned with her, not given.

"Tyreese."

Samara was startled out of her thoughts.

"We've been getting closer these past few weeks." A serenity washed away Michonne's earlier discomfort and jangled nerves. The Native watched in awe as the thought of the burly man had brought Michonne to a state of utter peace.

–How _much_ did she miss these past two weeks?

"Did you know he was a NFL linebacker?" Michonne turned to her with a light, recollecting smile. "I told you I _loved_ football, watched it religiously. I knew something was familiar about him but I never thought that I would actually meet a football star one day. Stranger things can happen."

"He's a _good_ man. I can tell just by the way he frets over his sister and the way he handles situations within the prison. He's one of those guys that still have compassion and selflessness running through their veins without them being a hindrance." Her smile dimmed to a thin line. "He's _nothing_ like me."

Samara frowned. Wasn't that a good thing? The good ones were usually the first to depart from this world, usually under painful and gruesome circumstances.

"You _like_ him, don't you?"

Michonne didn't respond, there was no need to. The answer was in her words.

The Native sighed as tried to keep her composure.

"We're not staying here forever, Michonne."

In other words—you can't get attached.

… _That is if you intend to leave with me when the time comes._

"I know, but I still want to." She said simply with no trace of doubt. "It's been some time since Mike died and I'm ready to move on. Tyreese is someone I can see myself kill time with."

Samara removed herself from the barrel as she walked closer to Michonne, never too close but always within range. This was a serious matter, one that could have a lasting impact on their future.

"I'm not telling you what to do, Michonne but—"

"Then don't."

Clear and crisp with no room for hesitation.

The Native smirked as she stared at the last ray of sunlight before the sun finally disappeared behind the dead fields and withered trees. Strange how beautiful nature could be and at the same time so nihilistic.

"I trust you to do what's right for _you_."

Michonne nodded appreciatively. She didn't require any hand holding or guiding—Michonne was a warrior, a quiet and resilient one. Mollycoddling someone like her was nothing short of silly.

"How are you coping with the group?"

She shrugged. "I don't poke my nose where it's not wanted."

Meaning she was watching and listening, but not engaging. Just biding her time for when it was necessary.

Samara nodded in adieu as she left the sword-wielder to her practice. Good or bad, Samara will leave this to Michonne. Pushing against the issue would get her nowhere and Samara wasn't about to get in fight with Michonne over something as banal as feelings.

 _Huh…Tyreese._

Maybe it was to be expected. After all, at the end of the day we were all just human. Samara couldn't ask Michonne or any other to remain frosty for however much time they had left. The three women have been for the most part withdrawn from other human contact and then, after months, throw into a social gathering that had members of the opposite sex. It must have been like taking a drink of rejuvenating, fresh water after a long-lasting drought.

Samara smirked. _Well, that throws my lesbian theory out the window._

The Native wasn't in the same boat as Michonne—she already knew most of the group and the only problem she had was _trust_. Samara had to relearn to mildly rely on the others again. Time and distance had given her a wide birth and she wasn't so inclined to believe anyone again so easily.

Then how the hell did Michonne—a person who was even more distrusting than she was—manage to attach herself to an outsider after only a month?

 _Love?_

She _seriously_ hoped not. That would instantly mess up her plans and make life harder for her.

What would an in-love Michonne be like? Would she bring walker trophies to Tyreese as proof of her undying adoration? Heads on the pointy tip of her katana?

Samara tried not to laugh at the image conjured in her head as she walked across the prison grounds. In the distance, there was the fence clean-up crew, consisted of Dixon and Sasha piling up the walker bodies into the Ford's bed trunk. Pausing near the prison entrance, her eyes remained on the distant figure of the Georgia hunter. Her fingers twitched over her inner coat pocket where her photos were—her anchor in the storm.

Michonne appeared at such peace when discussing the man of her interests.

Relationships. Comfort. Sentimentality…Love.

Samara was reluctant to ponder on such controversial subjects. It seemed fruitless in this new world. What good would love do other than give you a swift, one-way ticket to the coffin? In times like these emotional practicality was more wise. Just like soldiers—be prepared to see the man next to you die and move on without a slither of a doubt.

—You stop to grieve, you die. Simple as that.

How she wished she could be as harsh and level-headed as that. If she had been, she wouldn't be carrying these remnants of a lost world nor would she have stopped and grieved for her husband after New York. She would have marched on instead.

Emotionless as a rock. That's what Samara wanted to be. No room for doubt, no second-guessing a decision. Just take action and never torment yourself over 'what if's'.

But as soon as the thought came, it soured her mood as memories of John flashed before her eyes. Samara pondered over the loneliness she sometimes experienced, particularly when she witnessed the love and devotion between Maggie and Glenn. It was sickening and charming at the same time, and Samara was always torn between looking away or reminiscence over happier times with her husband. And when the later prevailed, a burgeoning hollowness gripped her insides, alerting her that something was missing from her life.

If there was one thing she missed, it was sharing her life, her experiences with a significant other. Someone that cared enough to listen as she prattled on about her dreary day without faking interest. Someone that she could share warmth with on cold days. Some she could touch freely…

Samara banished such imprudent thoughts. Daydreaming was a dangerous pursuit.

Disregarding the pair in the distance, she climbed the stairs intent on returning to her cell to await her tower shift. But as soon as she tried to redirect her thoughts, they adamantly returned to more intimate topics.

—When was the last time she had sex?

A year ago by her calculations, yet it felt like decades had passed and cobwebs was what was left between her legs. It wasn't like she couldn't live without it. Considering what she faced on a daily basis, sex was at the bottom of her need pyramid. Yet…

To feel such a physical connection once more—damp skin against skin, muscles and flesh grinding against one another in fervor, breathless pants accompanied by moans and grunts and the interlude of such a coupling…would be nothing short of _breathtaking_.

And risky as hell.

It wasn't like she had a flock of men to pick from—Grimes was married, Glenn and Tyreese were taken, Dale and Hershel were old as time, Axel and Oscar she barely even trusted, she had no intention of becoming a lesbian, so that left…

She paused just as she was about to close the door. Olive eyes narrowed over the hunter just as he walked up towards the truck's driver side, no doubt with sweat pouring down his forehead and skin smudged with walker blood and dirt.

Her lips contorted.

 _No._

 _Not even going to think about that._

Being alone wasn't that bad. She had been dealing with it for the past year and she knew that in the long run celibacy wouldn't kill her. Make her cranky maybe, but in the grand scheme of things it was unimportant. There were more imperative things she had to worry about than her dying libido.

Samara smirked in dry amusement. She never thought she would end up an old maid. The only difference was she carried a bundle of guns instead of cats.

 _What a great day to be alive._

* * *

 _ **Foot Note:**_ I don't really know if that's how detoxing goes since I've only seen it in movies and read some articles on the net, but I hope you get the gist of it—it's nasty and it hurts, but all for the better. I wouldn't call Sam a druggie per say, she's more similar to a housewife popping Xanax and Valium to get through her day than an actual frothing-at-the-mouth junkie.

That part with Rick finding out about Michonne was in the comics, only it was Andrea instead of Rick. I made just some small adjustments since in the TV show he finds out anyway, only later.

Anyways, Samara's onto Daryl—she might not be sure what he's after, but she's sniffing around like a detective. What _is_ Daryl after, I wonder?


	13. Take a Ride on the Forest Side

Samara was sitting at one of the mess hall tables, still as a statue as she rode off a particularly strong wave.

The US Air Force anthem kept repeating itself over and over in her head. Because of the lack of other stimulants to replace the pills she opted to rehearse songs in her head to keep her mind occupied. Even practicing on her boxing bag was out of the question until Hershel ok-ed it.

 _Hershel, I'll fucking kill you for this, you old son of a bitch! I want my fucking pills! Oh Gods, kill me now…_

"You feelin' alright?"

Samara popped her eyes open in time to see Andrea sit at her table with a food tray in hand.

"Not particularly." She said as a bead of sweat rolled down the side of her temple.

"Maybe you should see Hershel."

"There's nothing he can do." She swallowed thickly as she tried to smile reassuringly. "Just give it a few more minutes and it'll pass."

Andrea tried to mask her concern and Samara was glad she wouldn't push the subject further.

"It seems like everyone is having a bad day today." She sighed as she dug into her chow. "I mean, Michonne practically bit my head off just half an hour ago."

"She's got some things on her mind."

The blonde eyed the Native from underneath her pale lashes, scrutinizing her words. Something about them sparked a recent memory.

"About Tyreese, you mean." She nodded to herself, 'understanding' Michonne's plight. "I know she's spooked about the whole thing considering that we've been the only living company she had and all of the sudden a _guy_ comes along." She shrugged. "I told her to go through with what her heart dictated. God knows we deserve a little bit of happiness after everythin'."

Even through the pain, Samara gave the woman a clear stink-eye. "You shouldn't put crap like that in her head."

"Please don't start my day with your negativism, Samara. It gets dull after a while."

Just as Andrea was about to take a bite of her scrambled eggs and bacon, Samara shook them off her fork as her fingers gripped her wrist unsympathetically.

"What happens if she loses Tyreese?" She whispered harshly between pants, her eyes furious. "Is she gets heavily involved with him and he dies on her, she's going go back to a robot or worse. She's not impenetrable despite what you think."

"He ain't gonna die." She ripped her hand out of the Native's grip and continued eating her breakfast relatively calm. "Damn, you really like to put people down, don't you?"

"I'm a realist, Andrea. I think about situations you _clearly_ don't."

"Alright, let me ask you this—What makes you think Michonne will get emotionally involved in the first place? In case you haven't noticed, it took her months to trust us and, even now, she doesn't tell us everythin'."

"Times have changed. Maybe trusting us buttered her up to trusting others far more quickly."

She scoffed disbelieving. "And maybe the government _did_ make us all into walkin' dead."

"Go eat dick." Samara snapped back, irritated. This is what happens when you share theories about the virus's beginnings—you get mocked and likened to a crazy person.

"Haven't found one I like yet, but it's on my bucket list."

"I bet you have some _large_ and _thick_ requirements when it comes to it."

The blonde smirked. "I'm a picky eater."

Samara leaned back, scrutinizing the woman like an annoyed cat. "You know, besides getting a good eye for sniping, you also got a smart mouth."

"I did learn from the best."

Samara snorted sardonically.

"Michonne's a big girl, Samara. She knows how to take care of herself. If she didn't, she wouldn't have made it out there on her own." She cleaned up the mess Samara made and rolled them up in a tissue. "Why do you think we never ganged up on you when you chose detox? We knew you could handle it and we knew you hate being fussed over."

"I know that, I just don't want to see her…" _Go back to talking to walkers._

"I get it, I do." _No, you really don't._ "But it's not just the three of us anymore, Samara. Maybe it's time you expanded your wings a bit. It won't kill you to be friendly, you know. We've been here a month now and you keep to yourself most of the time like some kind of leper."

"I socialize enough _, mom_." She was already around a bunch of people 24-7. What else did she want? "There's no reason for me to go beyond that."

Andrea groaned as she put down her fork, unable to eat because of the aggravation that was sitting near her. "I wish you would stop being so…" The blonde made several unrecognizable hand motions.

Samara's brows rose expectantly.

" _You_."

Samara smirked. _We can dream._

Crack.

Both women brandished their utensils, ready to use them, as they followed the sound to a chipped bowl on the floor and a panting Lori holding her inflated stomach.

Beth was the first to reach her.

"Lori, you alright?" The smaller woman helped her sit on the bench, her voice shaking fearfully. "Should I get my dad?"

"No, honey." Lori breathed in deeply. "Baby's just stretchin' its legs."

Samara and Andrea neared the other two inhabitants of the mess hall, but the marshal hung back preferring to keep a respectful distance. Her presence near Lori's side might just over-excite the pregnant woman.

"You should walk around."

The chocolate haired woman looked at Samara with blatant suspicion. The marshal had never been her favorite person in the world and it seemed that feeling still hasn't changed.

"The swaying usually calms down the fetus."

"I know that." She breathed in deeply through her mouth. "I used to do it with Carl when he was still inside my belly."

With Beth and Andrea's help they pulled the pregnant woman to a stand. Even with the movement, Lori still seemed to be in discomfort as she gingerly walked out of the mess-hall, using Beth's shoulder as a crutch.

Samara wondered what will happen when the woman finally delivered the baby. It would change the atmosphere around here, most definitely. The group would become more protective since no one could resist helping out such a fragile creature as a baby. Good thing she won't be here long for it to affect her. That was the last thing she needed.

 _Heh, good luck with sleeping._ For the next year the group will all be like their corpsey neighbors, shuffling around, bleary eyed and moaning from sleep deprivation.

It was only then that Samara noticed the odd look the blonde was giving her. "How the hell did you know about that walkin' thing?"

"I read, you Florida swamp peasant." Samara deadpanned.

Andrea rolled her eyes.

The swinging doors to the hall opened once again as Dale stepped in, a large yawn opening his mouth wide. He had been up in the tower for half the night. At his age he was understandingly exhausted.

He approached the two women, waving a good morning as watery eyes settled on the Native. "Samara, Daryl asked me to tell you that he's waitin' outside if you want to see the cage. He said he ain't waitin' long."

Sooner than she expected, but it might not be the best time for her to go out in the forest considering there were still some remnants of the back pain from just a few minutes ago and she knew it was just a matter of time until they resurfaced.

 _It's either now or never._

Samara tapped on the blonde's shoulder conveying her goodbye and left the mess-hall to find her crossbow, leaving behind a puzzled Andrea and a snoozing-on-his-feet Dale.

* * *

Army boots crunched the emaciated blades of grass hovering over the freshly sprung ones.

The two trackers crossed the defunct train rails and passed into the early blooming forest. With the arrival of March, the vegetation had begun to pick up the pace so spring could finally begin its cycle. And since this was Georgia, the heat will rise with each passing day to such degrees that summer will be here in no time.

Samara was glad for the change since she'd had enough of the restriction so many layers of clothes brought on. As much as she adored her antique coat, she'd choose a light jacket over it any day.

Her eyes moved to the man before her. He too had opted to leave behind a layer of clothing and sported only his leather jacket and vest with wings sewn onto the back. She remembered that raggedy thing from the farm and still found it amusing that a man such as he would wear angel wings.

From the corner of her eye she spotted Daryl peeking at her. This was what? The third time he kept glancing at her with relentless scrutiny?

"You have something to say to me?" She broke their silent stalemate.

"The hell are you wearin' that for?"

That thing in question was the skeleton mask she still wore even as it became useless in the face of spring. But just as the hat and sunglasses, they were part of the getup and she was reluctant to part with them just yet.

"I like it. It has charisma."

Daryl snorted as he stepped over an overgrown root. "That's the easiest way of gettin' shot by someone. One look at that and they ain't gonna think twice."

She grinned underneath the material. "They also won't think twice about messing with someone dressed like its Halloween."

The man said nothing, but she could practically feel his disgruntlement. Truthfully, this mask was useful for those weak of heart. One peek was all it took to shake their resolve, no doubt thoughts of badguys, looters and bikers coming to mind. Against people like Dixon…they were as he put it, unnecessary.

But that didn't make them less _cool_.

"You been practicin'?"

"Every day, but it got boring quick shooting the same target over and over again." She almost felt sorry for that deceased walker with how she desecrated its body. _Almost_.

Samara checked her surroundings as they walked even deeper into the forest. The trees had begun to add in number as leafless bushes were strewn around, just skinny twigs wretchedly sticking out of the ground.

"How deep in the forest did you set it?"

"Just two miles west. I found their feedin' ground there. Deer don't usually travel too far from their bedding area, so layin' the trap right where they graze was my best shot. Look for chewed grass."

"I know what to look for. We had animals in Arizona, you know."

He looked at him that unreadable gaze of his.

Samara rolled her eyes once he turned away. So, yet again he was giving her the cold treatment. She couldn't believe she was thinking this, but she preferred him better when he was distantly amiable. At least he was bearable to live with, now he just reminded her of the hick she used to think he was.

"Hard to believe you never tried huntin' them."

"Never had a reason to. I may not like animals all that much, but that didn't mean I was about to kill them. Besides, my dad was into the whole wildlife preservation, so as you can image he hated poachers and hunters." Her shrewd eyes settled on his dusted white wings. "He would have _hated_ you."

No reaction.

 _Huh…_ She had expected _something_.

Her father had actually made tracking poachers a hobby. The way he saw it, if the family still practiced tracking after a century and some decades, he might as well use it for something useful. Naturally, he passed on that belief to his daughter ( _son in spirit_ ), but she only truly started using it when she became a marshal. Considering that West Virginia had a lot of criminals who called rough terrains their home, she'd added a number of miles of forests and fields under her belt.

The unnatural caw of a crow caught her attention. The avian's beady, coal black eyes watched her curiously from its vantage point, its brothers and sisters not too far away. This was similar to a scene straight out of a gothic novel—grey sky, lifeless forest, crows and deathly silence.

This didn't bode well.

"It's almost strange being out here again with you." She mused absentmindedly, her eyes still on the feathery spy. "Almost like old times, only we're not looking for a small girl anymore."

That elicited a reaction as Daryl minutely paused in his soundless walk. Even after all this time, he could still be affected by the mere mention of the lost girl. It was to be expected, she guessed. After the emotional investment he had put forth, residue still clung to him like a second shadow, unwilling to let him forget. Especially since the whole ordeal ended in such tragedy.

"The only thing I remember was how much you pissed me off." His voice was detached with a precarious edge to it, warning her to stop with that line of thought.

"Oh, don't tell me you miss it? I can always start." Samara's grin broadened at the prospect of a snarky argument. "Just give the word."

Since he had his back turned to her, Samara missed the faint upturn of his lips.

As they progressed, the trees thinned until a small meadow appeared before them. Inside the clear field, Samara spotted the cage in the distance and surprise, surprise…it was empty.

Daryl cursed as he walked around the metal and wood construction, his eyes in search of deer activity.

Samara looked over the cage. It was almost similar to the ones she remembered when she was a kid. The ones her father and she found in the vast outdoors of the reservation, courtesy of poachers.

"How long has it been here?"

"A week."

"That's too long without results."

The hunter stopped at he could see no indication of new tracks since his last voyage two days ago. The deer must have moved on. He really hoped that wasn't the case.

"Let's get to their beddin' area."

As they ventured further in, Samara eyed the hunter with interest. The casual movement of his actions and the craftsmanship of the cage raised questions in the Native's head.

"You've done this before, haven't you?"

He nodded. "A few years ago. It took some time, but my brother and I got a 340kg male elk. Biggest son of a bitch I've ever caught."

"I thought you usually kill them."

"Got paid to catch the elk alive. Some rich asshole wanted the head mounted over his fireplace, but not the hassle of tryin' to catch it himself."

Samara's lips contorted with displeasure. "I guess he didn't mind killing it."

Daryl grunted in confirmation.

"Was that what you did before the virus? Catch wild animals for rich people?" An unconventional occupation if real.

"No." He didn't explain further.

Samara sighed. There went the chance to find out more about the man. Even after all this time, he was still a closed off individual…or maybe it was just with her.

"You've gotten better. Walkin' silent, I mean." He explained through her confusion. "Can't hear you anymore."

"Well, a few months of walking through forests and farmlands can do that to you." His words had been unexpected. She hadn't noticed her acquired stealth since time bred familiarization, and with adaptation came a sort of odd fondness for the outdoors. For someone who used to hate camping or anything too outdoorsy, Samara had managed a 180 in personality when it came to that. "To be truthful, I actually like being out here more than in the prison. Maybe not _all_ aspects, but I do feel safer out here in the open. Buildings bring me that sensation of being trapped in a mausoleum."

The man shook his head. "The way I see it, it's better bein' protected by four walls and a roof than trees and bushes."

"Yeah, but what happens when your protection turns into a death trap? Walkers will always get inside buildings, that's a fact." Even in that seemingly impenetrable prison they still managed to breach it. "How many hidey-holes can you have until you run out of space?"

The hunter eyed her for a particular shrewd second. "You think livin' out here is better? There ain't nothin' out here but bad weather, cold and sleepless nights."

She smirked. "Don't tell me the 'great hunter' got domesticated?"

He lightly scowled at her, severity marring his features. "I know _better_. Don't get conceited thinkin' a few months traipsin' around Georgia's countryside makes you an expert. Let me ask you this—did you spend all winter out here or did you hole up somewhere? When it rains, do you find cover or dance around in puddles?"

Samara glared.

He scoffed, having his answer. "It's in our nature to find shelter no matter the situation. Don't go thinkin' your Pocahontas in a kayak, speakin' with trees and animals. You're just a visitor here."

If only he could see the unadulterated loathing pouring out of her eyes. She wondered if the man knew just how unbelievably frustrating he could become. He didn't need to call her out like that—she was aware of her inexperience. Compared to his knowledge she was just a rookie, but he didn't need to make a fool of her.

The duo walked in silence as they tracked the prints left behind. After his words, she wasn't interested in speaking to him for the time being.

Reaching the bedding area, the duo found it abandoned. They circled around in search of deer leftovers, but Samara could clearly see that the small meadow hadn't been inhabited for a while now.

"They left a day ago. Shit." Daryl rose to his feet after touching one of the several beddings. "Come on, we gotta follow them now. Tracks are already cold, don't need them to disappear."

Further and further away from the prison did they walk in search of the elusive herbivores. Samara lost time after a while—two hours maybe three? For a few moments, Samara wondered if this whole escapade was worth it. Wild animals were different from domesticated ones. Even if they caught a pair, who's to say they won't die or go mad in confinement. It's happened before in zoos.

Outside the forest, Samara looked over the horizon. Empty fields with a tree or two popping out of the ground.

 _Just as bleak as ever._

"Hey."

She walked over to the hunter and followed his pointed stare—there were several disturbances in the dirt with broken twigs and unevenly cut grass. The Native could even spot some tiny bowels remains scattered around.

"Right in the middle of their grazing spot." Daryl looked around the fields and then to the forest. He seemed to be mulling something over before nodding to himself. "Let's go back after the cage and set it up on the tree line. I want it hidden, but near enough for 'em to catch the bait's scent."

"Whatever you say."

* * *

The whole ordeal had taken another four hours, so afternoon settled and the tint beads of sweat on her face were proof that spring was here.

The cage had been constructed and propped in the location Daryl had deemed acceptable. The only thing left now was to wait and hope they catch something. She hoped they did because she wasn't a huge fan of dismantling the cage and carrying the pieces through rough terrain like a pack mule.

Talking had been limited to just instructions and Samara had been comforted by that. There wasn't much the two of them wanted to talk about so they kept their thoughts to themselves.

Samara sighed as she untangled her leg from a particular ground creeper. She hated these plants with a passion since the chances of tripping on one of these while running was more than possible. She knew because it had happened to her and she ate a handful of dirt for her troubles.

Heading back to the prison was easier than leaving it, but it was also more tedious. Samara could already feel the effects of the strenuous activity on her spine, but she was adamant in hiding it. She didn't need the hunter's 'I told you so' look.

Her eyes swap vigilantly over her surroundings. They had encountered three walkers by now and the last one had been a crawler. It actually made Daryl jump in surprise as it caught his ankle from its hiding place underneath overgrown vines and earth. Samara had kept her amusement to herself as she knew that the incident had strung him up like a violin string and she was hesitant to snap that string, if only to keep the peace.

Samara stopped, her eyes glued to the ground.

 _Hmm?_

She crouched down and swiped away dead leaves to find hoof prints and bowel remains. Holding her open palm over the feces she could feel the heat emanating from it and knew that the animal had just passed through here under half an hour ago.

A crunch of twigs next to her and Daryl's boots appeared in her vision. He too was observing the signs.

"Boar tracks." Samara said as she gazed up at him.

He nodded and pointed at the feces. "Fresh by the look of it."

"Let's find it."

Daryl shook his head. "It's too big. It'll attack once it sees us and you ain't in the condition to tackle a boar."

"That's why we'll kill it before it can." She rose to her feet, facing off the hunter. "I didn't come out here to go back empty handed. Come on, when's the last time you hunted anything bigger than a squirrel?"

His frown deepened. "I said _no_. We got a few hours until nightfall, we need to go."

The Native scoffed. He really had become domesticated.

"You go back. I'm going after it."

Just as she was about to step away, a hand obstructed her. Daryl was keeping her upper arm in a vice grip complete with a stern scowl thrown down at her.

"I ain't gonna make the same mistake with you again." He said through gritted teeth. "We're goin' back _now_."

Samara returned the glare, annoyed at his actions. This was Hampton all over again.

"Don't tell me what to do, Dixon." She hatefully eyed his hand, ready to bite it if he didn't remove it. "You're under the impression that I need your approval to do anything. I _don't_. Unlike some of the others, I know how to get back to the prison easily and I can manage in case I have to remain here overnight. I'm not some damsel in distress for you to save."

"I know you ain't, but you have a tendency to get yourself in stupid situations."

Her eyes twitched as flashes of falling through a rotted floor came to mind. "That was _one_ time and it wasn't my fault. If this winter and a bunch of armed men didn't kill me, I sure as hell not going to let a forest bring me down."

She pried his paw off unsympathetically, never once breaking their standoff—glaring at each other with frustration and discontent.

"I'll get back to the prison either later today or tomorrow. You don't need to worry about me because I sure as hell don't worry about you when you're out here. And that's because I _know_ you're more at home in this forest than in that concrete box. And that, surprisingly, is not an insult."

Testing the waters, she backed away and to her surprise, he didn't move after her just kept on watching her unwaveringly. Taking advantage of this momentary break, she walked away intent on following the tracks.

Really, for someone more experienced out here, Dixon should be the first to follow the lead. But caution and maybe even the familiarization with living indoors and having food at disposal had shifted his survival instinct to a tamer version.

 _So much for the_ mighty _hunter…_

A rustle.

Samara spun around, handgun at ready only to find Daryl catching up to her.

"Change your mind already?" She asked derisively as she holstered her weapon.

His answer was a vacant side glance.

The duo fell back into silence as they followed the trail.

Whatever his reason for joining her, Samara was glad that at least some of his old spirit was still lurking around. While being careful was the utmost priority, it didn't hurt to break the pattern once in a while.

* * *

Samara inhaled deeply the clear, cool earthy air.

She had missed this. This sense of freedom she always got whenever traveling the open plains. Months of always moving from one location to another had ingrained into her a more nomadic lifestyle and she was surprised to find that she didn't mind it at all. Besides, she had always thought continuously moving was the best option to staying alive. You accommodate yourself in one place too long and it becomes easier for others to find you and want what you have.

The transition to prison life had been too abrupt and after a month and some days, she had begun feeling the effects of it. Back at the farm house, she spent the majority of the day out in the woods tracking and hunting. After being cooped up with two women for so many weeks in a small room, alone time had felt like a much needed breath of fresh air. Even with the fields surrounding the prison, she couldn't feel the liberty since there was always someone you could bump into. She had still felt trapped.

Who would have thought that for someone who detested the outdoors, she now felt more comfortable out here than indoors surrounded by four walls or even a tent?

Months with Michonne and Andrea had accustomed her to a different lifestyle as most of the time they lived outside as they forgo cars and houses to walking with Michonne's walkers as protection. After the first two weeks, she had grown comfortable enough to sleep with both eyes closed under the blank gaze of the two undead. They were the best protection against others walkers—moving walkers did not approach since their walkers showed no signs of activity.

To Michonne it had been business as usual, for Samara it had been a successful transition, but for Andrea it had been a different story. No wonder she had been so happy to join the others behind high walls.

Samara watched the hunter as he walked beside her. He wasn't within touching range, preferring to leave a wider gap between them. As before, silence was golden as they tracked the boar. The awkwardness after their spat had subsided within a few minutes, leaving nothing more than an intense focus on their hunt.

Daryl stopped abruptly and motioned to her ahead and a little to the left.

There it was…hidden by leafless thin bushes, the boar.

It was bigger than she had expected, but that only meant more meat to be brought at the table. Samara grabbed an arrow from the quiver on her back and loaded her bow.

"Go slow. Nice and easy."

Doing as Daryl instructed, she took her time in pulling the string. She did not want to mess this up nor did she want to resort to her guns.

Both hunters made their stand as they had the boar in their sights. Like her prairie living ancestors, this was going to be a hands-on man against animal with prehistoric weapon concepts.

"Take your time. No need to rush."

Samara breathed deeply as she secured her target, feeling more confident by the second. She could do this. This is what she'd been practicing all this time for.

"Release the arrow when you're ready."

Deep breath.

The arrow flew with a twang and to Samara's delight it hit the boar in the neck, eliciting a pained squeal. Her joy soon vanished as the boar turned on them and charged with angry beady eyes, seemingly unperturbed by the arrow in its neck.

Daryl pulled the trigger on his crossbow and the arrow hit the boar in the snout, but it kept advancing. It was even angrier now as it let out a fearsome battle cry.

With adrenaline surging through her system, Samara did the only thing possible—she took out one of her guns and shot it in the side of its head. Yet, despite its initial stagger, it kept on coming.

"What the fuck?!" Samara hissed heatedly at the boar's apparent immortality. _What was this? Captain Wild Boar?_

"Samara, get back!" Daryl shouted as he reloaded his crossbow.

Ignoring his command, she aimed again intent on killing the advancing animal. The blood in her veins surged with such velocity she almost felt euphoric. Even her heart resembled more of a war drum than a squishy organ…Which was probably what caused her hearing to fail as she didn't hear Daryl's more urgent shout.

Her eyes widened as she felt her legs get tangled up in vines.

"Umph!"

For a tiny moment, Samara was in free-fall until the ground made contact with her back and brought her back to a painful reality. Stars and constellations shot across her blackened vision. The mammoth of all electric volts just shot across her spine and muscles leaving them in ferocious pain.

Through the haze she could hear the sound of the hunter's crossbow being unloaded. With shaky fingers she felt around for her gun as it had slipped out of her hand upon impact.

 _I have the worst luck…_

Time distorted as she waited for either the boar to gore her alive or the hunter. She tried to move, she really did, but her body just wouldn't cooperate for the time being. The pain still pulsated across her spine and Samara's only choice was to outwait the soreness.

For what seemed like a lifetime, Daryl finally appeared in her line of sight. He seemed unharmed and just a little winded with eyes wider than normal.

"It's dead."

"Thank the Gods for that." Samara breathed in relief as she pulled off her mask. "Why the hell didn't it go down the first time?"

"I told you boars are dangerous. That bullet to the head did it. He was just goin' on borrowed time."

Samara laughed lowly, amused at this whole situation. "I guess this shows that guns _are_ better than bows."

The hunter crouched down to her level and looked her over with an air of concern. Her contorted features were making it clear that she was in tremendous pain.

"How bad?"

She swallowed thickly. "Pretty bad. These are the days I wish I never swore off painkillers."

He cursed under his breath. "Never should've brought you along."

"Fuck your guilt trip." She snarled with barely any power behind it. She did not want to hear him berate himself over her choices. "I didn't lose a leg, it's just a bit of pain. It'll pass in a few minutes."

Maybe it was too soon after all. She should have waited at least another week or two before venturing out. Why the hell was she so incapable of listening to Hershel's advice? She knew why—she just couldn't stay stationary for too long.

Samara breathed out tiredly as she kept her eyes on the barren canopy above her. The clouds were still as grey as before with the occasional gap revealing clear blue sky. She couldn't wait for the last vestiges of this dull winter to be over.

Warm fingers touched her skin prompting olive eyes to abruptly move to the man beside her.

 _What the…_

Daryl Dixon was stroking her cheek.

His fingers were light enough that she barely felt his cuticles moving across her face to her ear. There was an intense focus illuminating his eyes as he stared at the damage done by Maggie's bullet. Her ear shell was reminiscent of a bitten apple, but Daryl didn't seem to mind as his fingers ghosted over the loss.

Thump.

 _Ah._

Thump-thump.

 _Too close._

It didn't take long for her to begin hyperventilating. Her heart was beating even faster than when confronted with the boar.

 _What the hell is going on?_

He was too close, caging her in and making her feel claustrophobic. She couldn't breathe properly. His touch was like hot coal on her skin and the tiny flutter in her stomach had her feeling nauseous. She hadn't felt this particular excitement in a very long time, from the days when John began crawling under her skin.

Her pupils dilated as those traitorous fingers moved from her ear back to her cheek. The feel of his rough skin, akin to a rough brush, crazing her skin had the fine hairs on her arms standing at attention. A shiver crawled down her body as the flutter in her stomach tightened into a terrifying, delightful knot. His thumb moved on its own, circling a small patch near her eye with such gentleness that it struck the Native mute.

Since when was tenderness a part of his personality? And why the hell was her body reacting to it so viciously?

This wasn't _fair_.

"You have a dimple on your cheek."

That sound of his gruff, low voice was just the right incentive to break the spell she had been under.

" _What_?"

Her wide-eyed stare coupled with breathy tone were like a bullet to the face as Daryl realized his position. He looked between her eyes and his hand and made that funny wide-eyed stare as shock and disbelief took over his body.

"I—"

Not a sound came out of his mouth as it just opened and closed like a man lost in the desert, unable to reach the oasis in the distance.

Overwhelmed by the sudden attack on his senses, Daryl got to his feet and quickly backed away from her, his eyes fixated on everything else but her.

Samara pulled herself to a sitting, ignoring the flare of pain. She was too flabbergasted to even care about her body's troubles. All her eyes could see was the man wishing he was somewhere else but here.

The silence around them was soul shattering. Their panting breaths, the light breeze and the distant cawing of crows was all they could hear as it created a scene of unnatural allure.

"Why did you do that?" Her voice trembled at the end, betraying her unease.

He shook his head, still unable to speak or even look at her.

 _No. He didn't get to shut down. What he did went_ beyond _understanding._

Rising to her feet, Samara kept one hand on her back to straighten it while her eyes never left him, afraid he would try something. Right now she was so fired up that every fiber of her body felt on the verge of a great chasm.

"What was that, Daryl?" She was pleased to notice that her voice had regained stability even though her insides were seconds away from imploding. "Can you please explain to me why you just did that because I'm starting to get a whole bunch of ideas and neither one exactly thrills me."

He shook his head, pacing away as the fingers that touched her so intimately raked through his hair in frustration. He seemed just as lost as she was, but Samara didn't exactly care at the moment. She wanted answers, even a small one, to appease her shaken conscience.

 _Please, tell me it's not what I think._

"Are you deaf now?" She yelled, distressed by his continuous silence. "Look at me."

He does and for once the wall protecting him from outsiders wasn't there. Frustration, betrayal, awe and traces of terror all mixed up in a pool of momentary brutal honesty. It scared even Samara as she realized that underneath those volatile emotions, there was an understanding. Almost like a long awaited revelation.

She took a step forward, her words stuck in her throat. A beat of sweat rolled down her temple as she tried to keep her nerves at bay. They threatened to lose all semblance of control and immolate her from within.

 _Oh Gods…_

"Do you want to touch me, is that it?" She spoke in a whisper, fearful of his answer. All the saliva seemed to have evaporated from her mouth as even the attempt to swallow was like sandpaper grinding against her insides. "Is this what this whole thing is about?"

He froze in place.

The hunter seemed torn between answering and keeping silence as he regarded her closely. Never had she thought a minute could take this long, as if hours had passed in a span of a few moments. Whatever the man's conclusion was, it seemed to center him as the wall was erected back into place and he coated himself with his usual distant aura.

"We need to go." He spoke in his usual gruff tone. "There's an hour or so left until the sun sets."

Samara was left dazed and unhappy and just a little foolish with this turn of events. It felt like Daryl had all the answers in the palms of his hands while she stood on the outside forever trying to peek between his clenched fingers. He had no intention of giving her an answer, much less confront the situation he had put them into.

For once, Samara was at a loss on what to do. She felt light-headed and directionless, so she did the only thing she could do—revert to her coping mechanism.

"Yeah…We should start dragging that thing back to the prison…"

Locking away the last few minutes and throwing them at the farthest reaches of her mind, Samara got to work. Her movements were robotic and her insides felt void of emotion, but at least she wasn't in that maelstrom of sensations and never-ending ideas anymore. The threat of them swallowing her whole was all too real.

But, despite her best attempts, there was that nagging feeling in the deepest corner of her heart that told her that her thoughts were more close to the truth that she would have liked.

* * *

Michonne twirled the toothpick in her mouth as she observed the two trackers skinning and cutting up the boar. Night had settled in an hour ago, so the duo was working at lantern light, but it didn't seem to bother them. They were more intent on finishing the job…and ignoring each other as much as possible.

—How they thought they could accomplish that while standing a few feet from one another, she had no idea.

The sword-wielder had been surprised at the appearance of the boar being dragged like a hunk of dead flesh. The others had awaited a plentiful feast, but Dixon wanted to carve the boar first of every last bit of meat before they could eat it.

Dixon did most of the hacking and slashing while Samara worked the preservation process, dipping the meat in salt. The boar's fat was thrown into a pot of boiling water to make lard so nothing was left out.

Samara wasn't even grimacing at the blood and gore splattered on the pavement and on her. At first she used to. Michonne remembered the faces she made as she cut animals open, but as weeks passed Samara got more detached as she gutted and skinned rabbits, foxes and squirrels for the three of them. Never anything larger since they didn't have the time or supplies to store them. Besides, this winter had been tough. There had barely been any animals larger than foxes around.

Silence was key among them and words were uttered only when needed. Like a clock's cogs they moved in tandem, each knowing their job and never questioning the other. But no matter how professional they looked, Michonne could spot the underling tension between them like a festering wound.

Something happened out there. Every time one of them spoke, shoulders would tense tightly and there seemed to be a reluctance to look at each other. Daryl wasn't even reveling in his pastime of sneaking glances at the former marshal.

Blonde hair walked into her peripheral.

"What's got you so broody?"

Michonne took her toothpick out and gave the woman a questioning glance. "Broody?"

"You got that look that you do when you're lost in thought." Andrea crossed her arms as she leaned against the fence. "Makes you look like some wise old sage lookin' over his grasshoppers."

The sword-wielder smirked. "You must've been the nerd in your family."

"Don't tell anyone."

Michonne's eyes wandered back over to the trackers and Andrea observed her intense fascination. She tried to see what Michonne did in the people bellow, but she saw nothing other than two people cutting boar flesh.

Andrea narrowed her eyes curiously. "What are you lookin' at?"

"A puppy dog."

Bewilderment reigned over her features and Michonne decided to enlighten her.

"Don't you think it was rather odd when he stormed into the gym demanding answers from us about none other than Samara?"

"He was concerned like anyone else would be."

Michonne sighed at the blonde's obliviousness.

"I've been watching him for a while now. He's a very guarded man, choosing his words so he never reveals more than necessary, but whenever Samara comes in the picture there are cracks in that guard of his. He focuses on her like a predator does its prey. He eye-stalks her when the opportunity presents itself and I'm pretty sure he's been doing it for a while now. Hence, why I said I was looking for a puppy dog."

Andrea's eyes widened with each passing word until she is left with her mouth gaping open. The dots finally connected. "Tell me you're jokin' because that's just hard to swallow."

"I thought so too at first. I thought he was chasing the woman with short hair, but they never did anything above talking."

Andrea choked disbelievingly. " _Carol_?"

"I think they're just friendly." Michonne continued without interruption. "Then I thought about those stories you used to tell me, how Samara bartered for weapons over lives. I thought that he was just suspicious of her and was trying to gouge out her objective here, but the more I looked the more I understood that that wasn't suspicion he was looking at her with." She smirked whimsically. "I don't think he realizes himself what he's doing it."

"There's nothin' between them, Mich." Andrea waved it off, trying to wash off her initial shock. Damn. "Just old grudges and quarrels."

"Why do you think that?"

"Because those two are dynamite level unstable together. Like two pit bulls fightin' over a bone. Actually, it was sometimes funny watchin' them argue, but then it down spiraled into ugly."

"So you don't think it's possible. I haven't _seen_ them fight once since we've been here."

A crack in her defense. "Well, I admit I expected _some_ friction once we got here, but strangely, nothing's happened."

"As far as we know. Before they went in the forest both were relatively calm, but now…they are so tense you could snap them in half with a simple huff and puff."

Andrea raked her fingers though her long pale hair. "Michonne, you're putting too much thought into this. This is _Daryl Dixon_ we're talkin' about here. Neither he nor his brother did affection. Daryl could pull off being nice in a distant, loner kind of way, but not emotional."

"And how well do you know him exactly?"

Andrea was quiet. Michonne got her there. Andrea didn't actually know him above the level of an acquaintance.

"Whatever it is, I think you should stay out of this." The blonde stepped away from the fence, clearly taken aback by Michonne's assumption. "This looks too much like a minefield. Besides, even _if_ Daryl does feel somethin', that doesn't necessarily mean Samara does too. Can you imagine Samara being all lovey-dovey because I sure as hell can't?"

Michonne scoffed. It was hard to, but—

"I think everyone these days is just so used to seeing only various shades of a person. We don't give ourselves the time to show the whole because we either can't or won't. You either see it as a weakness or unnecessary or just a defense. We are currently living in the times where trust isn't the first option that comes to mind." Michonne gave her companion a pointed look. "Can you honestly say that you _know_ me?"

"That's because you never talk about the past with _me_. It's kind of offensive, really. Am I not _cool_ enough to be part of the 'Ya-Ya Sisterhood' you two got goin' on?" The other in question being Samara.

"Samara doesn't know everything about me. We're all entitled to our secrets. I have mine, you have yours and Samara has hers."

Andrea scoffed, not at all appeased. She gave the duo another look before shaking her head of such unbalancing thoughts. "I still think its bullshit."

"Think about it this way—it could make her forget leaving."

Michonne watched as it dawned on Andrea the real reason behind her interest. There was nothing other for the woman to do than chuckle in wide incredulity. "Christ, I think some of Samara rubbed off on you. That's the kind of duplicitous shit I expect from her."

"She's not the only practical person left in this world. I have to think of our survival also and this place is sufficient for the time being. She needs to understand that." Besides, Michonne didn't want to lose Samara. If she went off on her own, she just knew she'd never see the marshal again. "Eventually, we'll move on, but it doesn't have to be premature."

"And you think hookin' her up with Daryl will do the trick?" Andrea snorted, letting her know exactly what she thought of her plan. "Boy, you are in for a surprise and not the good kind either. You have no idea how _bad_ this could backfire. This is not some average Jane and Joe we're talkin' here. Those two are deadly when threatened and they don't shy away from physically fightin' anyone. Maybe Samara more than Daryl since she has no problem punching friend or foe."

Michonne sighed as the blonde had jumped to conclusions far too early.

"I'm not looking for some grand romance, Andrea. Just kill time together. Let the days pass more quickly so she doesn't notice that it's time to leave. Maybe connecting with someone else on a deeper level—even if it's only about sex—will halt her roaming nature. It's better this way."

Andrea threw up her arms in defeat. This was a messed up thing to do to anyone. You couldn't just force two people together because it was convenient and these two were the most unlikely of all.

"As much as I don't want to know what will happen when we reach the deadline, I'm not about to manipulate someone, especially not a friend. You're on your own."

Michonne threw her toothpick away as she heard the door close behind the blonde. Andrea was too sensitive when it came to people; she needed to grow a tougher hide. But the sword-wielder wasn't upset. She already knew this would be a one-man team.

As horrible as it sounded it wasn't the worst Michonne had done, far from it. The way she saw it both Samara and Dixon would benefit from this and both were old enough not to take it to heart. But then again, there was always the threat of it going sideways. As she said, Michonne doesn't know Samara entirely—she might actually be a rather loving person, even though she very much doubted.

 _Well…_

If things did go tits up, she'll bite the bullet.


	14. Busy Little Bee

Samara stared at the wall, ignoring the world around her as Michonne readied herself for the weekly supply run while Andrea hovered over her with a list of necessities.

The Native heard nothing of the two women's conversation as she remained lifeless on Michonne's bed, her eyes never registering what she was seeing. Her mind was in a whole other world, one that involved her and a certain other prison inhabitant. She still couldn't wrap her mind around what happened in the forest even though it was as clear as day…or rather she didn't want to because she knew that if she did, she'd cross a line she knew she could never come back from.

"Samara?" A hand waved before her eyes, snapping her to the present. "You with us?"

"Yeah…" She blinked languidly, realizing that the two women have had an entire conversation while she had remained comatose.

Fair-haired brows scrunched in puzzlement. "Where were you right now?"

The Native shook her head as she rubbed her forehead. It didn't matter.

"Do you need anything?" Michonne stepped forward with her empty backpack, carefully scrutinizing the woman on the bed. She seemed even worse than yesterday.

"A shitload of gum." She breathed deeply as she felt the beginnings of a headache. "I need to do something about these cravings. They're driving me up the wall."

On top of having this recent dilemma on her mind, she had to deal with the hunger pangs for painkillers. It was just one after the other with her.

"If I can find any, they're yours."

Samara gave her the thumbs up when hushed, harsh voices interrupt their peace. There was a man and a woman arguing in the hall of the cell-block.

"When will you?"

"I don't know, Lori." There was some rustling sounds, like the person was in search of something. "I need time."

"You've had time!" The woman's voice rose before lowering abruptly, cautious of other people listening in. They must be unaware of the three women at the furthest cell. "I'm not the only one stuck in this, but if you want out then go. I can take care of this baby on my own."

"I never said that!" The man hissed back, a slip of frustration in his voice.

Heavy boots followed by brisk, careful steps walked further away from the block until just the three women were left.

"So much for the Grimes being tight-knit." Andrea scoffed as she plopped down on the bed next to Samara.

Michonne grunted as she pocketed the list. " _That_ was the sound of last leg of a marriage before it's finally put through euthanasia."

"You think so?"

"I've lived through a divorce. I know what it sounds like."

"I guess Rick killin' Shane must have put a _huge_ dent on their marriage. Not to mention Shane was sleepin' with Lori before Rick came back into the picture." In a way, the blonde understood Lori's desperation when it came to Shane, but there were also inconsistencies that she couldn't. Whatever had run through the woman's head at the time was a mystery.

"That's exactly what we need now that TV's are gone—real live drama." Michonne's smirked piercingly. "Too bad I missed all the _explosive_ parts."

Andrea gave the woman the dirty eye. "That ain't funny, Michonne."

With a brisk wave, the sword-wielder disappeared from view, ready to join the other members of the supply run.

The blonde sighed. "I swear Michonne has the same dark humor you have. Huh?"

Samara wasn't listening as she was once again lost in that thousand yard stare. Andrea's brow furrowed in worry. The talk she had with Michonne came to mind and she wondered if something _really_ did happen between the two hunters. Why else would Samara practically be comatose day in and out?

She didn't like this.

* * *

"Be alert. Search the whole house and take only what you can. Don't overdo it. If there's more than we can handle in one day then we'll return tomorrow."

Daryl instructed the three people as they stepped onto the street of the abandoned cul-de-sac. They were miles away from the prison, ready to search and scavenge anything valuable.

"You see walkers, you know the drill." He took a drag out of his cigarette as he eyed the first house in eight. "Anyone alive and friendly, you say it's just the four of us on the road and try to find out more about them. If they're hostile, kill 'em _only_ if you don't have any other option. We ain't here for that."

Michonne gazed at the almost identical houses and if it weren't for the abandoned cars with doors hanging open, clothes strewn across lawns and corpses decomposing on the street, she would think this was just another typical white collar neighborhood.

Far-away childlike laughter echoed and Michonne abruptly pushed the memory away.

 _It's just a cul-de-sac. This is not your old neighborhood. Get a grip._

"Sasha you're with me—"

"No, I'll go with you." Michonne interrupted. This was the best opportunity to talk to the hunter and gouge out the extent of his attraction to Samara.

Daryl gave the woman an imperceptible stare, but she knew that behind those vacant eyes there were neurons working furiously to disclose her reason. He nodded casually, but she could already see the wall adding another layer of defense.

Her beau of the moment stared at her quizzically, but she put him at ease with a slight amiable smile and a brush of her fingers against his arm.

Michonne smirked internally as he shivered at the unexpected contact _. I still have the touch._

From the corner of her eye, she caught Sasha's displeasure directed at their little affectionate gesture. The younger sibling wasn't delighted of her brother's choice in a partner, but Michonne wasn't here to appease her. The girl was old enough to accept it and move on with her own life.

The two groups split up as they scavenged their respective house. Daryl was the first to step in while Michonne followed with her katana out and glinting in the sunlight. The house was left in disarray as cabinet doors were flung open, plates and glassware were shattered on the kitchen floor and crusted blood prints were trailing upstairs.

Michonne cursed under her breath. Someone already picked the house clean, she was sure of it. It seemed the hunter came to the same conclusion as he searched around the deserted kitchen, piqued.

"So much for food." He dropped his burnt cigarette and crushed it under his boots. "Let's find some clothes and hygiene products at least."

The sword-wielder shrugged, only mildly interested. She was more concerned with the man before her.

As they ascended the stairs, Michonne watched the man's graceful, fluid motions. Every move was calculated with precision to make the least amount of sound and his eyes never missed to asses everything in sight. A true predator.

No wonder Samara was wary of him…

"I see the way you look at her." She broke the ice.

"Who?"

"Samara."

Nothing seemed out of place with him as he reached the second floor and since his back was turned, Michonne was unaware of his facial expression. She always could read people's true feelings better when she could see their faces and the man surprised her when he turned. He was aggravated judging by his narrowed eyes, but it was just a thin sheen over an empty wall.

"Don't worry. You're subtle enough to be unnoticeable, but I'm good at spotting ticks and lies. You wouldn't believe how easy some people are with their tells." She joined him on the second floor hallway, mimicking his guarded expression. "You're not, which is why I still don't know what to make of you."

Daryl scoffed as he stared down at the woman, dislike evident on his contorted lips. "I knew there was somethin' strange about you. This a hobby of yours? People watchin'?"

"I reserve it only for the interesting ones."

"I ain't got nothin' that'd interest you."

The hunter tried to move past, but found it difficult as the woman's katana laid flatly on his chest, barring the way.

—It was a warning.

"On the contrary, when someone like _you_ shows interest in someone dear to me, it makes me wonder just what that person's motives are."

"Someone like me." He repeated derisively, already envisioning what she thought of him.

"Someone as _unpredictable_ as you." Michonne turned the table on him. She cared nothing of his upbringing or background. As far as she perceived it, the virus gave them all a blank slate. "From what I heard the two of you are not exactly the 'best of buds', so when I see out of character behavior it makes me suspicious."

"Right, 'cause we've known each other that long for you to notice." He scoffed.

"It's actually quite easy. Everyone has a pattern, but now and then there are deviations from it. When that happens, it's fascinating to see the cause of it. It could be an object, a situation...a person."

I ain't done nothin'."

She looked at him pointedly. "Holding on to a presumed dead acquaintance's photo is glaringly obvious."

"It was _nothing_." His teeth grinded as he was short on patience to open up this can of worms once again. He had exhausted all sides of it with Samara and his own conscience.

"I wouldn't have done it." Michonne dogged him relentlessly, eager for honesty. "If I had been in your position, I would have thrown them away or buried them somewhere if I'd been the respectful type."

His fangs finally came out as he pushed the blade away roughly, earning himself a thin cut on his palm. "Then enlighten me, what does that tell you? You already have made up your mind about this, so spit it out."

And she responded to his challenge head on.

"Leave a man with just one woman to ogle for months and he's bound to start feeling something other than indifference. You _want_ her."

Daryl locked his jaw, feeling as if a whip thrashed his skin bloody.

"It's nothing to be ashamed of. Samara is pretty when she doesn't scowl. I don't blame you, I'm just curious why _her_ of all women. You don't strike me as a masochist, nor do I believe that her 'charming' personality won you over." _Considering that Samara is as charming as a crocodile._

"I don't know, alright." The archer agitatedly raked his fingers through his shaggy hair. It was obvious he didn't want to hold this conversation with anyone, much less her, but he was smart enough to understand that he couldn't escape her. "It ain't like I wanted it, it _just_ happened. There ain't nothin' more to it than somethin' physical." His angry gaze turned to her, biting as a cornered animal's. "So, that enough for you? 'Cause you're startin' to piss me off more than I already am."

"Only physical?" Michonne still wasn't appeased. If there was a chance there was anything deeper than lust, she wanted to know. The more ingrained the emotion was the easier for her to guide it towards greener pastures.

But Dixon didn't give her an answer as he rounded up on her, his voice low. "I answered your question, now you answer mine. Am I gonna hear this conversation comin' out of her mouth?"

The 'her' being Samara.

"I'm just an impartial observer, nothing more." Michonne shrugged. She wasn't going to give the marshal a play-by-play since that would just make the woman even more guarded and suspicious.

"You better be." He threatened. "I don't know you and I don't like it when strangers poke around in my business. This is between me and her, no one else. Stay out of it."

The sword-wielder watched as the archer walked away, his shoulders slightly more slumped than before. No doubt, drained of energy and weighted down by burdens only he could perceive.

 _Not so impenetrable after all._

So, the archer was physically attracted to Samara, enough that his body unconsciously acknowledged her whenever she was in the vicinity. Or so he said. Michonne wasn't naïve enough to believe he had spoken the whole truth. No, he had just given her a few bread crumbs to satisfy her curiosity. Whatever else lurked inside that man's heart, she wasn't privy to it and doubted anyone else was.

But she knew, without a doubt, that whatever happened in that forest disturbed both parties enough to avoid the other like a plague.

Admitting was one thing, but actually acting on his attraction was another. The man was clearly reluctant to try considering who the woman he coveted after was. He was most likely adamant in his thinking that Samara's first reaction would be to back away disgusted or retort violently. Michonne didn't blame him for that since she also thought those would be the Native's primary responses. She could be predictable like that.

Now, what she had to do was break through Samara's defenses. She was easier to coax into talking since she trusted Michonne.

 _Ah, the things I have to do…_ She was even frightening herself.

* * *

Thwack.

The arrow embedded itself into the deceased walker's eye with a sickening squelch.

Samara reloaded her compound bow and shot another arrow. She had been repeating this process since Michonne left hours ago. Since she was banned from using the punching bag to relieve herself of her frustrations, she opted for an easier activity only it. Wasn't. Working.

 _Goddamn you, Daryl._

Again the arrow drilled another hole in the walker becoming a trypophobics worst nightmare.

 _Why the hell did you have to go and do that?_

Ever since the incident two days ago, she hadn't been able to think of nothing else but that. It occupied her every waking thought and no matter what she did, her mind immediately slid back to the incident.

After her initial shock subsided, Samara decided to view this from a cool, logical perspective. This new incident was added right next to the other little things Daryl had done since she came to the prison weeks ago. With great effort and reluctance, she put them all together and came up with an answer that had her physically recoil.

It was _exactly_ as she had thought. As she had hoped it wouldn't be.

 _Fuck._

She couldn't deny or even hide from it anymore. It was staring at her right in the face with big neon lights.

Samara growled as she let another arrow fly.

What the hell was wrong with him? When had she ever given him the indication that she wanted anything from him beyond that of colleagues? She had always treated him with distance and disdain, and he in turn had done the same with her. So how the hell did this happen? How do you go from hate to… _something_ else in a span of a month and a half?

 _It was those fucking photos_ , her teeth gritted loudly. They were the root of all this mess. Dixon must have grown attached to them to the point that his fascination transcended to real life.

But the most horrifying aspect of this whole problem had been her reaction to his touch. Like an emotionally depraved beast, she had reveled in his caress. Her gloved fingers reached for the path he traced on her cheek and immediately dropped the offending appendage. Even after two days, she could still feel his rough skin gliding over hers. Like a phantom teasing her from the beyond with enticing promises of forbidden delights.

Again, the memory brought a flutter to her stomach and she knew her cheeks were coated in pink rosiness. Her breath lengthened and she could feel her heart beating rowdily against her chest. With despairing fingers, Samara gripped her abdomen as the sensation made her whimper. Every time she reminded herself of Daryl's gentleness, more kindling was added to the burning embers. There was something growing inside her, something that could potentially lead her down a very slippery slope.

—And what was worse was that this wasn't the first time.

When Daryl had showed her how to use the compound bow, his one moment of out of character behavior had been her first meeting with the warmth. It had frightened her so badly that she had snapped at him, calling him on his actions. She would have done anything to stop him from touching her with that fondness and he just kept on tormenting her with his proximity. It had taken all of her willpower to concentrate on the bow alone and not on the man behind her, breathing into her hair.

She had thanked all the Gods for the moment Daryl finished the lesson. The minute he vanished from sight, she dropped the bow and clutched her knees in panic. She had been completely blindsided by her body's reaction to him. With admirable strength, she wrapped up the experience tight and secure and buried it deep inside her mind, denying its very existence. _That_ had been the extent of her terror.

But now the chains had broken and everything resurfaced, adding more fuel to the fire.

Both times she had reacted to his proximity and touch alone. His words and appeal never did anything above aggravation, banter or indifference. Whatever she felt wasn't love or anything close to it, but a physical attraction. But even that was enough to have her cringe.

 _Oh Gods…Please tell me I'm not attracted to_ Daryl _fucking_ Dixon _._

Samara shut her eyes tightly as she let her bow hang lifelessly in her grip. But it was evident, wasn't it? Add every one of her bodily responses, calculate them and the result would be the same. Even she wasn't stupid enough to misinterpret something so transparent.

How…When did this happen?

 _No. Wait._

 _Think logically._

She hadn't been intimately close to a man in a _year_ , so that meant she would be more sensitive to the attention of one. These were just superficial feelings brought out by her lack of close contact. It wasn't about sentimentality, but her body's needs. Humans were just higher forms of animals and like them, we all felt the need for it. Sex didn't always involve sentiment. When it wasn't about reproduction, sex was just an action meant for releasing pent-up energy.

In simpler words—while her mind said one thing, her now jump-started libido wanted the opposite.

Samara let go of the breath she had been holding and wiped the sweat pouring down her forehead. Even with this revelation, she didn't feel at ease. Samara had never contemplated sleeping with anyone unless there was a moderate degree of physical attraction present. So, didn't that mean…

She blanched.

 _No_.

It was just as she thought before. Man and woman. That was it. If it had been any of the other men of the prison, Samara would have reacted the same.

 _Right?_

"Hey, marshal."

Startled, the Native turned like a frightened rabbit, arrow at ready.

"Hey, don't shoot!" Axel raised his hands in surrender.

With a coarse sigh, Samara lowered her weapon, fingers twitching. It was just the convict duo.

"Shit, marshal." Oscar observed the arrow riddled walker and her tense form. "Are you always this uptight?"

 _If only you knew…_

Samara gathered her remaining arrows and packed them all into the quiver. Her anger management session was over. It was time to find something else to occupy her mind.

It was then that she noticed the objects in the men's hands.

"Where did you get those?" She asked surprised as the presence of the baseball bat, balls and leather glove.

"Oscar found them in the guard's locker room." Axel smiled as he kept throwing the ball into his gloved hand. "We were hopin' to have a game."

"You know how to play?" Her incredulity washed away her earlier heavy thoughts, instead focused on the prospect of a childhood pastime.

" _I_ do." Oscar said as the bat rested on his shoulder.

Now, this was interesting. _I think I just found my distraction._

"Not much of a game if it's only two."

He shrugged, nonplussed. "We make do with what we have."

"You wanna join us, marshal?" That earned Axel a glare from the taller man, but he was sincere.

Despite the fact that her teammates would be convicts, Samara was ready to dive in the game, but Hershel's check-up yesterday cooled her fervor. He had demanded that she settle down for a day or two since the strain and impact of yesterday's forest run had left her sore. If she played baseball, even if she chose batter or pitcher, she would have to twist her back to certain degrees that would end in pain.

"I'm not in the shape to do anything too strenuous, so I'll be the catcher. Which position was your best?"

"Batter."

"Pitcher." Her favorite. "Maybe when I'm better, we could try it that way."

Oscar watched her shrewdly. He was wary of her and she of him, but that didn't mean they couldn't enjoy an amicable game.

"Maybe." He shrugged again. "I haven't played in a while so I might swing the bat wildly."

Samara smirked. What he meant was that he might just hit her instead.

"I'm a bit rusty myself. I might just throw the ball back to your face instead of the pitcher. _Sorry_ if that happens." Her derisive tone said otherwise.

"Are you two done measurin' your dicks? 'Cause I thought we came here to play some ball!" Axel gave the woman the leather glove and left the two in the dust as he jogged up on the central mound.

The others followed after giving each other an agonizingly long look. For now it was truce.

They set up position with Axel as the pitcher, Oscar as the batter and Samara as the catcher. The Native listened to Oscar's instructions for Axel on how to play. He had to throw the ball with all his strength at Samara so she could catch it, but if the batter was quicker then Oscar would hit the ball. When that happened Oscar would have to run all the plates and Axel had to recover the ball. Once in his possession, Axel had to throw it back at Samara so she could touch the base and call score for them while Oscar was left at zero. Whoever reached the score of six, won, and Axel would switch as the batter and Oscar as the pitcher. Easy for a three man team.

And the game began, leaving Samara's earlier thoughts in the dust as she concentrated on winning.

The first ball had been thrown so poorly that it didn't even reach the two of them, but curved to the far left. Axel hid his embarrassment with a nervous chuckle and tried again. Only after the fourth ball did he manage to get it relatively right and Oscar missed the chance to hit the ball, much to Samara's delight.

"Pretty rusty to not be able to hit that crappy throw." Samara chuckled as Oscar glared at her smugness.

Gripping the bat tighter and focusing more intensely, the man waited for Axel's next throw.

Thwack.

The ball flew as it impacted with the piece of hardened wood.

"Holy shit, look at it go!"

Axel hooted as he watched the ball soar high and Oscar gave the woman a 'swallow-your-words' smirk, fouling her winning mood. He laughed as he leisurely ran the plates since he knew there was no way Axel was going to get that ball back.

Samara rose from her crouch, staring in awe at the horizon. It didn't take long for the ball to disappear over the roof and out of sight.

 _Fuck me that was a good hit._

What they didn't see was the ball's landing.

"What the hell?!"

Dale fell off his stool, startled out of his wits as the metal basin just exploded, drenching him with soapy water from head to toe. He had just been washing some intimates, minding his own business, when something just crashed into the water.

His bushy eyebrows pinched together forming a line as a baseball popped to the surface of the water, floating casually around the washbasin.

He looked up in disbelief. _Where the hell did that come from?_

* * *

Rick smiled as he watched from his vantage point on the bridge his son playing basketball with Beth. Maggie, Carol and Lori were sitting on the benches watching the match while talking among themselves. There was real laughter and joy and Rick contended himself with watching from a distance.

This is what he wanted. A safe heaven to feel normal in a world that was anything but. And the prison offered them this illusion, but he knew if the others turned their heads just a little to the side, they could see the walkers in the distance shuffling towards the high fences.

He sighed despondently. Nothing good came without mud getting dragged all over.

Lori's smile had his heart clench in distress. He still couldn't face her about Shane and everything that had happened between the three of them. The thought that he was still keeping the secret of Shane's death hidden from her brought even more queasiness to him, but he couldn't just tell her right now. Not while she was so close to her due date.

After the baby was delivered, he swore they would have a real conversation that didn't involve him pushing her away at every opportunity and hiding from their problems.

"I thought your kid lost the ability to smile."

Rick started at the apparition of the former marshal. He'd been so engrossed in his thoughts that he hadn't heard her approach.

"He didn't, he's just…tired, I guess."

The former sheriff turned to observe the woman and his eyes landed on the compound bow hanging by her hip and the quiver with arrows sticking over her shoulder. Was she trying to mimic Daryl?

While her body was relaxed, her features were anything but. There was a tenseness to her that betrayed her true feelings—confusion, fright and exhaustion.

"What's eating you?"

She shook her head despondently. "Life."

 _Join the club._

"How long until Lori gives birth?"

"It's gonna happen somewhere at the end of April, Hershel says." Rich sighed again as his fingers looped through the fence and grabbed hold of it. "Every time I think on that, I get this feelin' like its years away, not a month and some weeks. So many things could happen between that time and now." His forehead connected with the cool metal. "We haven't even found a name yet—"

"I don't want to know, Grimes."

His fingers slipped from the fence, his eyes still on his happy son, but his mind somewhere else entirely. It was back in the forest when she had told him that if he ever wanted to unburden himself he could come to her. It seemed that wasn't the case anymore.

Rick huffed with a cheerless smile. "I can't believe I actually miss you callin' me sheriff. Samara, I know you're gonna leave, but that don't mean we can't talk. We were friends once, right?"

"Yeah, _once_." Her lips quirked with light bemusement. "And as childish as this is going to sound, me and you…We can't be friends anymore."

"Why not?" He frowned, not understanding.

"It's because we were friends that I _didn't_ leave." Samara leaned on the fence and faced the descending sun with a grim look. "That last day on the farm, I should have left when we discovered Randall was missing. But no, instead I listened to you. I stayed to protect the others because you asked me to."

It then clicked. "You think if we talk like we used to, you won't leave."

"I think you have a very powerful effect on me. Almost like voodoo." She smiled hollowly. "I told you once I saw my father in you. Maybe that's why I couldn't leave. If I had, it would've been like losing him for a second time." A sigh left her lips as she slipped her fingers underneath the sunglasses and massaged the corner of her tired eye. "I'm not going to make that mistake again. It can't be like before. I won't allow myself. We can talk about anything related to the prison—defense, supplies. But not _us_."

Rick doesn't answer as he stared dejectedly at the people below. Samara might be back, but she was still lost to him. She still didn't trust him. Just like always.

Maybe the situation would have been different if they had come back after her. If she had stayed with them she would have grown to enjoy all of their company and trust them with her life, but that was just wishful thinking. It just wasn't meant to be.

A car engine rumbled in the distance and soon a Chevrolet made its appearance on the dirt road. The others were back.

"I'm surprised Dixon stepped up." Samara said as she watched Beth and Maggie rush over to open the gates and let the car inside the prison walls. "I always thought that he would remain a lone wolf. He never seemed like the type to run with the pack."

"He surprised even me." If it hadn't been for Daryl, Rick didn't know how they would have made it the first month after the farm. With discouraged and angry people, Rick had had a rough time shouldering everything by himself. That is until the hunter rose to the occasion and shared the burden. "He still acts like it at times, but Daryl's come a long way."

"That's good to hear." Despite Rick's faint skepticism, Samara spoke sincerely. "We may have our differences, but I'm glad he found some purpose."

"I'm glad you did also. Whatever Andrea and Michonne did, changed you for the better." He smiled at her. "You're not selfish anymore for one."

"I can't say I've changed all that much."

"You haven't started a fight in the month you've been here. From my point of view, that's a major improvement."

Samara snorted. Considering how feral she had been at the farm, she didn't blame him for being so taken aback by her good behavior.

"You and Daryl, you two gettin' along?" He knew they talked on occasion, but he'd never heard of anything violently happening between them. "I remember how you two were at the farm and I hope that's all behind now."

Samara clicked her tongue as the residents of the car stepped out, all in one piece. Like a magnet, her eyes immediately found the man in question and she felt the flutter disturb her core once again. With vengeance, she shoved that sensation back into the darkest pits from where it blazed from.

"I made my peace with him." It didn't escape the sheriff's notice how her expression darkened. "Don't worry, I won't do anything to disturb the stability of the group. It's in my best interest as it is in yours."

The others in the courtyard helped the scavenge group with carrying the findings to the prison. On the pavement between buildings, Rick saw Axel and Oscar approach from the back of the prison. The shorter man spoke animatedly to a calm listening Oscar while carelessly throwing a baseball in the air.

"Do you really trust those two?"

"As strange as this sounds, yeah." It had been slow and gradual, but those two ultimately earned their trust. "I didn't at first. They were just an obstacle for me. I couldn't have them livin' with us in the prison. After so many months on the road and considerin' how Tomas and Andrew turned out to be, I wasn't so keen to trust anyone, especially not inmates." He remembered the day clearly. "Either they left the prison or I shoot them, but…some of the others couldn't just send them out." T-Dog had been the most vocal about it. He had wanted them to be treated fairly. "Those two had no idea what awaited them on the other side. So, I was convinced to let them stay and they proved themselves with time. You asked me to trust you with Michonne, so I'm gonna ask you to do the same with Axel and Oscar."

He could see that Samara still wasn't convinced, but he couldn't help her with that. She needed to find that trust on her own. Trying to force it onto her would just strengthen her dislike.

He too had to understand the sword-wielder. That moment in her cell still raised goosebumps all over his skin and he needed to be sure that he could trust the woman to roam around freely. Ever since then, he had been keeping an eye on her, trying to figure her out, but she was too guarded for him to catch a glimpse underneath.

"Did you two talk?"

"Not yet, but I'm patient…" Neither of the two had made the first step in talking about the elephant in the room and Rick wasn't the one who would. He wasn't the one who had to give an explanation.

He stepped away from the fence and walked towards the door to the prison, already feeling the night's chill seep through his clothes. "I'm gonna head down and see what they brought back. You comin'?"

"Sure."

* * *

Samara walked past the others as they sorted out the bounty, vehemently avoiding even looking in the hunter's direction. Her sight was on Michonne alone who stood a distance away with a full backpack and a curious Andrea peeking inside.

"Did you find them?" She asked hopefully once near.

Michonne dug through her pack and produced two boxes of multi-fruit flavored gum.

"You're a life saver, Michonne." She really hoped they worked because she was starting to lose patience with Hershel's method.

"Also, I found these." Michonne smirked as she pulled out a stack of magazines and handed them over to the blonde. "I think you'll like them, nerd."

With wide eyes, Andrea took them reverently. They were comic books and not the recent type either, but the old ones from the 80's and 90's.

"Holy shit…this brings back memories." She smiled brightly at the sword-wielder, clutching the comics protectively to her chest. "Thanks, Mich."

The woman grunted. She had never understood the appeal of graphic novels, but everyone was entitled to their quirks.

Samara's brow quirked at the sight of the superheroes on the cover. "You read things like that?"

"When I was a kid. Didn't you?"

"No."

Even Michonne shook her head.

It was Andrea's turn to eye both of them strangely. "Damn, what kind of boring childhood did you two have?"

Samara scoffed as she threw a piece of gum in her mouth. The sickly sweet flavor assaulted her taste buds and made the back of her jaw ache. Recovering from the sharp pain, Samara's eyes landed on Daryl who had his gaze unwaveringly fixed on her. The Native's breath hitched as she kept the contact, unable to back out. Like a black hole sucking in everything in its path.

 _Goddamn you, look away._

She tried, she really did, but it was like the force between their standstill wouldn't allow it. It felt more like torment than anything. There was heat crawling up her throat ending at the tips of her ears. Her breath was ragged and there was a growing pressure in her brain that left her feeling dizzy.

 _Please…_

Daryl broke their standstill.

Samara sucked in a deep breath to calm her frazzled nerves. With difficulty, she unfroze from her spot, rigidly walking the opposite direction. She needed to be alone right now.

"You off to hide again?"

The Native turned towards her katana sporting companion with a guarded look.

"Ever since you came out of that forest two days ago, you've been withdrawn and on edge. Even when you're with us, you're still gone somewhere inside your head." Her eyes narrowed as they moved over to the Georgia man now talking with Grimes. "And what's even strange is that the archer is in the same boat as you. He snaps at anyone who talks to him and he's chewed through almost all his fingernails."

Samara's eyes fleeted around for anyone listening in on their little conversation. Andrea had drifted away some minutes ago and the others were focused on the loot, so it left just the two women alone.

"What exactly have you seen?" She asked apprehensively. There was no reason for her to try and hide. Michonne had clearly seen enough to make her own assumptions.

Samara really did hate it when Michonne spied on her.

"He stares at you a lot, to the point of unhealthy." Samara's eye sharpened catching Michonne curiosity. "And from the looks of it you have some notion of it."

The Native shook her head. "No…not about that."

She hadn't known that Dixon had been watching her, and somehow, it made it infinitely more unsettling. Not because it was creepy, but because it caused another wave of exhilaration to warm up her already excited body. That coupled with all the other little things he did continued to clear up the fog and Samara felt nauseated as she could see the whole picture before her.

"What happened in the forest?"

The Native narrowed her gaze, but kept her ground. "When you tell Grimes about your invisible friends, I'll tell you what's up with me."

Michonne mirrored Samara's displeasure, but it was clear that her words were getting to her. She was more defensive than before.

"I'm guessing it's something big enough from the way you're so shaken up." She looked her up and down. Everything about the Native screamed 'I'm hiding something'. "I haven't seen you this restless since we saw those Army boys get shot."

"Watch it, Michonne."

The threat was real. Samara was skirting the edge of her self-control.

"I'm not attacking you, Samara." Michonne retreated strategically. "I just want to understand why you're so agitated. It's not doing you any good from what I'm seeing." Physically and mentally. "What happened out there?"

"Something that I don't _want_ to understand entirely, but it can't be helped." Samara flinched, her lips thinning and pressing harshly against one another.

"Did he make a pass at you?"

Samara's fingers absentmindedly ghosted over the missing flesh of her shell. "…He touched my ear." And that hadn't been the first time, either. She could still recall the sensation of his exploring fingers on her hand like some kind of precious stone.

Michonne blinked emptily. "And?"

"What do you mean 'and'?" Samara snapped quietly. "Isn't that enough?"

"I thought he did something more serious. Didn't think you'd react so strongly to just a touch." Michonne gave her a pointed look. "You're kind of a prude, aren't you?"

Samara snorted. "If you had known me before I became a married woman, you wouldn't say that. I got no problem being close to a man just…"

And then Michonne understood. "Just not this particular man…Why?"

"Because he's a—" The urge to say hick had been steadfast and quick, but she refrained herself at the last second. "He's just not _right_."

Michonne scoffed in order to hide the spontaneous guffaw. "If you're looking for Mr. Right, then you're going to be waiting for a very _long_ time."

"I'm not looking for anyone, Michonne."

"Are you sure about that?"

Silence.

Samara averted her gaze. Was she? Ever since the virus broke out, she had been on her own. Preferred it that way even, but then why would she take Alistair in instead of just leaving him behind? Why stick around with other people instead of immediately returning to her solitude?

Strength in numbers? No, that wasn't it.

Companionship? …Maybe.

After living in a world where at every corner you would bump into a human, being brusquely thrown into silence had been jarring. Even worse, knowing that whenever she came into contact with one of her own could potentially mean her death.

Having someone she could trust without fault had been Samara's most sought out desire. One that she buried deep within because she knew there were little chances of it ever happening. She tried with Rick and failed. She had been willing to try with Dixon, but he had refused her drunken but sincere offer to leave the group. Then the two women came along and after long, arduous trials Samara finally found kindred spirits in Michonne and Andrea. The Native had been at the height of contentment. She had travel companions that willingly walked this bleak road with her.

 _But all good things eventually come to an end, don't they?_

Joining with others had given them new prospects and the time to walk separate paths had arrived. Michonne found normality with Tyreese and Andrea found her place within the group while Samara held onto last vestiges of the past.

Once again, she was back on the long road of solitude.

"You don't have to be alone, Samara." Michonne said as if reading her mind. "It does help having someone, you know. And I'm talking from recent experience."

Samara frowned as she picked apart the woman's words. Was she talking about—

"The cure to my 'complexities' is not a good fuck, Michonne." Samara lost any trace of uncertainty and hardened behind a wall of annoyance. "And if you're talking about a relationship, that's out of the question."

"I just think it would do you some good to _relax_. I wasn't suggesting you commit, just blow off some steam. Do you think that what I'm doing right now is serious?" The woman scoffed. "I'm just having as much fun as I can have before the shit hits the fan and we both know it will eventually. If there is an opportunity, why not take it?"

Samara smirked humorlessly. "Fuck 'em and leave 'em, huh? No thanks. I've done the whole 'drowning in sex to hide the real problems' and it didn't really work out for me. It just makes life even more difficult."

"True, but it does feel _fantastic_ after a long dry spell."

Her smirk turned to an amused grin. "I bet."

The humor died once the situation crashed back over her shoulders. "I can't, Michonne. Some things are better left untouched, especially when we're talking about me messing around with _him_."

Michonne's gaze traveled to the man in question. "…He's not exactly bad to look at. I'd go for him if I'd liked the rugged, Georgia blue-collar type."

"I don't go for that type either." Samara crossed her arms defensively, avoiding looking at the man. "I've never had a redneck fetish, not even in my darkest fantasies. It was enough for me to see them on a regular basis in my line of work. I didn't want them invading my thoughts at home."

"I thought you said you don't see him as a redneck anymore."

Her grip on her arms tightened until Samara could feel her nails digging through the material of her coat. Even her teeth scrapped against one another like a cornered animal.

All of this didn't escape the sword-wielder's sharp gaze and somehow she felt irritated. Michonne had never been one to deny herself especially when it came to men. If she wanted someone, she got him, no matter how strained or healthy the relationship between them was. She was straight-forward and determined in all aspects of her life and she knew Samara was the same, but it seemed that once the Native got a whiff of human bonding, she balked and over-analyzed herself to the point of exhaustion.

—Why did she have to make everything so difficult when in reality it was fairly simple?

"Samara, if you don't feel anything then why are you so stressed? It's nothing, right?"

The Native swallowed thickly.

At this stage, she wasn't so sure anymore.

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_ Samara is struggling. And rightly so considering what she and Daryl had been through since Wiltshire. Neither friends nor enemies.

I never said this was gonna be easy, huehue.


	15. A Feather Touch

_**Author's Note:**_ I think you guys are gonna like this one :)

* * *

Thud and down the walker went.

Disgusted, Samara retrieved her machete as a murky colored liquid poured out of the walker's skull. She sighed as the sun beat on her skin, heating up her body until drops of sweat piled on her brow like marbles. She had forgone her coat in favor of a dark denim jacket and even her skull mask was put to retirement. It was too warm to be wearing winter clothes anymore.

The clink of metal and the hungry growls encompassed her hearing, but to Samara they were of no importance. Sleep hadn't come easily last night as her conversation with Michonne looped itself repeatedly inside her mind. Before getting married, Samara had never had a shortage of male attention. She had been appealing to the eye and knew how to manipulate someone for her own gain. She'd never had any complaints except from the ones that wanted more, but once she let them in they realized that the exterior didn't match the interior and they hightailed it as fast as they could.

Daryl had done the complete opposite. He had been privy to her ugly side from the start and he'd been exposed to it far more often than anyone else. So, why then? What did he see in her?

 _Maybe he's a masochist_ , she chuckled humorlessly.

Was it lust alone or some other more complex emotion? She very much doubted that it was anything too deep since she had never given him a reason to like her as a person. In all her life, her husband had been the only person beside her father who had cherished her wholly—the good and the bad—and Samara doubted the hunter was anything like them. Men like that were a dime in dozen. In the end, he was just a man with desires and who was she to judge his taste. She'd made some stupid decisions in her life when it concerned men. Besides, like her, what other choice did he have? Carol was older, Beth too young…but what about Andrea? She was beautiful, but maybe just not to his liking, and Samara didn't believe the hunter would go after the women already in relationships. He was too principled.

Now there was a familiar sensation, men wanting her body more than her heart. It gave her a sense of nostalgia for older times.

Her eyes hardened as she stared at the gap in the fence. The hunter had slipped into the forest this noon to check on the cage and hadn't returned yet. She wasn't worried, she just wondered what took him so long. Perhaps, like her, he just wanted to be alone with his thoughts and make some sense out of this situation.

Could she do it? Sleep with him? If she had been younger, she would have dived in head first without a thought for the consequences, but she was older now and had left those wicked days behind. Besides, sleeping with someone like Dixon wasn't as easy as it sounded. He probably didn't trust her not to try something shady like exploit his weakness and frankly, if this had happened at the farm, she would have done it with an evil smile on her face.

Samara sighed as she speared her machete into another walker. Would he even let her touch him? She'd remember the times when even the slightest brush would send him jumping several feet away. He had always been someone that treasured his personal space and was reluctant to let others breach it, especially her…which probably should have been an early sign of things to come.

Retrieving her machete, she watched as the others continued with their task. Everything had become so repetitive—sleep, eat, kill walkers, scrounge food, repeat. It was starting to become, for a lack of a better word, boring. She hated mellowing down because it lowered her guard and when that happened mistakes were born.

Perhaps a change of pace _was_ needed.

Her mind returned to the man she so failed to stop thinking of. What was he thinking right now as he walked through the forest? Did his thoughts run parallel with hers? She liked to think that he was also in the same boat, picking himself apart. She wondered what conclusion did he come to.

 _Well…_ The corner of her eye twitched. _There is only_ one _way to find out._

Samara chuckled. How cruel that she had to be burdened with something like this. Perhaps this was karma for all nasty things she had did and said to the man.

 _Goddamn irony._

"What's so funny?"

Her thoughts came to a halt as Rick caught up with her slow pace.

"Just some silly thoughts."

He grunted as he scrutinized her over. "You look better than yesterday. Not by much, but enough to see some change."

Samara scoffed, not really feeling it. Her mind and body were exhausted to the point that she barely had the motive to do anything else. It was by far a good feeling.

"Michonne and I, we talked this mornin'."

"Really?"

He nodded with a bemused hum. "She told me to stay out of her business. That she's got no reason to tell me about her private affairs and that I should solve my own problems first before badgerin' her for her own."

Samara chuckled under her breath. _Just like Michonne to go straight for the jugular._ "That's just her way of being friendly."

"Then I really don't want to know how she's like when she's angry."

"Trust me, you don't." The Native continued as she popped a gum. "If you came to me for the story, I can't tell—"

"I know, I just wanted to say that if she goes off the rails and her behavior threatens the safety of everyone, I'm gonna give her the same choice I gave Axel and Oscar."

"Fair enough." She hadn't expected Michonne to reveal anything, but she also hadn't expected for the former lawman to be so calm about it. She had thought he would be aggravated at the very least.

Samara observed the man in the light of the morning sun. Despite his disheveled appearance and short beard, he was still as handsome as the first time she saw him.

…Wouldn't someone like Rick be more of a suitable candidate for her? She knew it sounded awful since the man was still married to his wife even if they were estranged, but he would have been someone more _right_ than Dixon. He was loyal, brave, he protected his family with his life. He was decent. Her father would have _loved_ him as a son-in-law even if he was white.

"Hey," Samara fidgeted as she took down another walker. "I want to ask you something that will break my distance clause and probably either confuse or make you wary of me."

His brows furrowed in puzzlement, but he nodded nonetheless. "Shoot."

The Native hesitated at first, but swallowed her uncertainty and spoke clearly. "Have you ever felt anything beyond just friends…for me?"

The change was immediate. His wrinkles cleared and the expectant look in his eyes turned to confusion and ultimately to nothing. He just stared out like a blank piece of paper.

"Maybe that distance clause ain't such a bad idea after all."

 _Damn, He took it the wrong way._ "Forget it."

A hand on her upper arm stopped her from leaving. There was a strange light inside those sky blue orbs, drawing her in. He was searching for answers to her out-of-the-blue question.

"Why are you askin' me this, Samara?" His grip on her arm tightened as he took in a lengthy breath. "Is there _somethin'_ I should know?"

The Native would have snickered at his caginess if it weren't for the tension between them. "I'm just trying to understand a situation from an observer's perspective. Don't worry, I'm not trying to jump your bones or anything."

His fingers unclenched as as the wrinkle in his brow smoothened. The harsh air disappeared leaving only reprieve as he resumed breathing normally.

Samara's brow lifted peculiarly. Had he been that concerned of her answer?

"No. You've always been just a friend to me. A very difficult and sometimes maddening friend, but one nonetheless." He said pointedly as he continued in his task of destroying walkers. "Did that answer help with whatever is gnawin' at you?"

"Not exactly, but at least I got the answer to a very double-edged question I've been pondering for a long time."

Grimes' lips tilted upwards in a crooked grin. "I'm flattered."

"You should be."

They both smiled as the situation defused and the air returned to normal. This was all there was going to be between them—a strange, fluctuating friendship. There was no spark, no physical attraction. Sleeping with him would be like sleeping with a brother.

Samara shuddered. Not the kind of image she wanted in her head.

Her gaze turned to the prison. What kind of life could be had here? A peaceful and relatively normal one, but forever in the shadow of the dangers just across the high fences, whether they be under the form of the undead or other desperate people. This was the old ages all over again, when people would own castles that needed protected from invaders.

 _My prison is my castle—_ Was that what the man beside her thought?

But that sort of thinking only invited others to think the same and try to take it from under his rule. Humans have been conquerors since the moment they picked up weapons. It was never enough what they had at the moment, they needed to have their neighbors possessions also.

What did she want? A home, a friend, a partner…something beyond tangible?

 _Keh…_ What did affection and love ever bring these days but heartache? Grimes was a prime example of that—instead of being reunited with a loving family, he got betrayal, suspicion and loathing on his hands.

"Hey…" Her call caught the man's attention as he just finished with a walker. "Do you think your life would have been better if we just kept on going that time we reached Atlanta?"

"You mean if I never met up with my family again?" Grimes paused astonished. "That's a silly question. _No_. I think I would've been more lost than ever."

"But you would've been _free_. You could have started all over again without…everything that's happened." She had almost slipped out his wife's infidelities and all that was in between the farm and now.

And judging from Grimes' prickly glower he heard the unspoken words. "No, I would've been weighted down by 'what if's'. A life in grief is not somethin' I'm willin' to live through. It wouldn't even be livin', just breathin' for the sake of it." He took a deep breath as his tangy accent mellowed down. "Through better or worse, if I'm ever given the chance to choose between leavin' or enterin' Atlanta and start this whole bumpy road all over again, I will always choose the latter."

"For your son?"

"For Lori also."

Samara looked away. Even through harsh times people would still cling to their estranged spouse because they were a comfort zone, something a person was already used to. Letting them go would result in being thrown into disarray. Grimes was scared of that and even Samara was at some level, otherwise she wouldn't be holding onto relics such as photos and wedding rings or even the necklace.

She wasn't ready to move on, to completely let go.

…But that didn't mean she couldn't find something else to occupy her time with.

"Looks like Daryl's back."

Samara followed Grimes' gaze. The hunter emerged through the gap in the fence and as before, he was empty-handed. The Native followed his darkened silhouette crossing the field, outlined by the descending sun. His breath came out in small vapors that dispersed within seconds as the temperature took a continuous dip now that night was setting.

Even at this distance, Samara could still practically see those intense blue eyes search his surroundings for any immediate dangers, his muscles rippling underneath the jacket from the weight of his crossbow. There was no doubt his forehead was settled in its customary frown that screamed 'back off' at anyone who crossed his path.

 _There was an intense focus illuminating his eyes as he stared at the damage done by Maggie's bullet._

Samara clicked her tongue.

 _His touch was like hot coal on her skin…_

With newfound fervor she scratched at her arms where the hairs stood up and at attention. It wasn't just the night chill that bothered her. No…it was much more than that.

* * *

It was near midnight and Samara was still lying awake in her cell. She sighed despondet as she realized this would be the fourth night of sleeplessness.

 _Joy…_

Her ambiguity was starting to seriously piss her off. She knew what she had to do for it to be over, but she was a coward. It was the line…She wouldn't be able to step back from it once crossed and the only direction past that was forward and that thought scared her. Forward was the unknown, especially on such fragile territory.

Samara rose from her bed and chewed on another piece of gum as her doubts brought out other unwanted cravings. She felt like bashing her skull against the wall. This was the worst combination there could possibly be. Even pacing around her cell didn't work and thoughts of taking a midnight run to calm her nerves ran through her mind, but she knew even that wouldn't work. It was all in her head and an exhausted body wouldn't be able to stop her brain from once again starting its cycle; it would just prolong the inevitable.

The Native growled as her fingers interlaced atop her head. She had been torturing herself for the past three days without an end in sight and she was tired of it. She wanted to rest, to sort out her mind and think clearly once more.

 _What am I doing? I'm thirty-four years old and I'm hiding in a cell like a little girl who still thinks boys have cooties._

She spat out her gum.

 _That's it! Pull up your big boys pants and_ _just_ _go for it._

Leaving her cell, Samara climbed the stairs as noiselessly as possible. She didn't need an audience to the insanity she was about to commit. She needed to know, to be absolutely sure. She liked dealings with certainties, not variables. This was not just for her sake, but his also. He had made the first move and now she needed to respond. Grimes had been right, nobody should live a life of 'what if's' and if she didn't get rid of this uncertainty in her heart, it will unquestionably crush her with time.

Samara stopped once she reached Daryl's cell. Through the dark curtain she could see the thin beams of light seeping though the fiber.

The hunter was awake. Good. It made it easier this way.

—Then why was she frozen on spot?

 _Come on, don't pussy out now._

Taking in a deep breath, she steeled her nerves and pushed aside the barrier. As she thought, Dixon was awake, reading a book on his bed by camp lantern light. His eyes found her the moment she disturbed the stillness of his cell and immediately his body locked on guard.

"What do you want?"

She remained wordless as she entered his cell and Daryl let the book fall on the mattress as he sat straight, cautious of her approach.

There was only a foot separating them, but already the tension had grown to massive proportions. It was tangible enough to make the Native want to gag as they both couldn't tear their eyes apart, not even as the seconds ticked by.

The dim light didn't provide much visibility, but Samara could see his blue eyes as perfectly clear as in daylight. They had a peculiar shine that made them appear like the brightest objects inside the room and Samara was utterly transfixed by them.

Her hand slowly, cautiously reached for his face and she could hear Daryl's breath hitch. His eyes widened as those fingers touched his cool forehead. Like a whip his reaction was immediate—he caught her wrist in a vice grip and wretched it away from his skin.

"What are you doin'?" Blue eyes were so wide that if this had been any other moment, Samara would have laughed at how comical it appeared, but she had her own worries to deal with.

"You think you're the only one allowed to touch?" Samara swallowed the accumulated saliva as she spoke as clearly as possible. She did not want to appear not in control even thought she felt she would break into tiny pieces at any moment. "Back in the forest you scrutinized every inch of my face. This is my turn now. So, let go."

He doesn't budge an inch. Instead, his eyes narrowed and grip tightened to the point that Samara frowned out of discomfort. As much as she wanted to snap at him, she refrained herself in a rare moment of turning the other cheek. Instead, she opted for a gentler approach.

"Please."

His fingers minutely twitched on her skin and she could see the battle over his decision raging in his eyes. It was hard giving up control, she knew. Trusting the other not to take advantage while your guard was lowered. This is part why she had recoiled from him the first time—she had been unaware of his intentions and she hadn't wanted to be plunged into something she did not understand completely.

His thumb brushed against her pulse drawing her attention from out of her thoughts. Unhurriedly, his fingers uncoiled and slid away, not wasting the opportunity to feel the skin on her wrist. Samara's lashes fluttered as the tingling sensation in her core grew.

Biting back the shudder that threatened to expose her nervousness, she focused back on the path before her. Now unobstructed, her hand touched his forehead with softness she hadn't thought herself capable any longer. Daryl's initial reaction was to flinch away, but gradually he eased into her touch before finally submitting entirely as her fingers raked through his scruffy, light brown hair. The sensation of her nails scraping over his scalp had him sink into that lukewarm feeling completely. The delight evident on his features made Samara bold enough to step further. Coquettishly, her fingers slipped away from his hair and glided around the shell of his ear. The ghostly sensation tickled his skin and had his head twitch in escape. Deciding to spare him her petite torture, she continued on her path to the edges of his jaw so that her other hand could mirror the other's. As she cupped his face, the fine stubble pricked her skin, prompting her thumbs to caress them with familiarity. She hadn't felt a man's five o clock shadow in such a long time that she hadn't realized how much she missed it. Since John had always been in a hurry, he used to have a perpetual one that she used to rub her cheek against. It was such an exhilarating sensation that always managed to bring a smile to her face.

So enraptured by her memories she was that she didn't notice Daryl was now openly scrutinizing her. His pale blue eyes watched every emotion flash across her face and knew that in her mind she was somewhere else entirely…and most likely with some other than him.

Shutting her eyes tightly, she shook off old ghosts and willed her fingers to move. Gently they climbed up his cheeks to reach the bags underneath his eyes. Fascination enraptured her as she traced the wrinkles that showed his age and Samara wondered how much older than her he was. Once she reached the corner of his eye, she was made aware of the intense gaze she was under.

Olive green and icy blue met once again.

 _He really_ is _attractive,_ Samara thought. This hadn't been the first time she'd been physically close to him, but those times she had never taken the time to fully explore his features. He had an average face, if she were to be honest, but his mannerism and way of holding himself gave him that edge that made him pleasing to the eye. Even if he dressed in plain clothes he would still stand out as different in a crowd. He did not fit the requirements of the herd.

—And she liked that.

His breath had become fairly labored as Samara's soft hands left his cheeks in favor of the bridge of his nose. Her fingers leisurely slid down to the tip, before tapping it lightly. Samara's hands disconnected from the man's face and he visibly sighed, almost in relief at being released from under her tangible spell.

Unluckily for him she wasn't done yet.

Her hands settled languidly on his broad shoulders and she lowered her head. The hunter flinched as he fought with himself to pull away, get as far away from the woman as possible, but Samara wouldn't let him. This was the last part of her little experiment and she wanted to follow it through.

Their faces were inches apart now and Daryl's firm self-control cracked as his gaze slid down to her lips. Teasingly, she poked her pink tongue out and slowly wetted her lips, making the man painstakingly swallow. Again, Daryl cringed, but this time more out of internal agony than discomfort.

Inch by inch, she heeded the pull between them and moved closer to her destination. Samara could clearly hear her wildly beating heart and hoped to the Gods she wasn't about to faint from the excitement.

The first contact between their lips was nothing more than a feather touch. She approached the man like a cornered animal since she understood that men like Dixon could react spontaneously and unwillingly head-butt her out of surprise. Moving gradually was the only solution even thought it was agonizing for her. She wasn't exactly the slow type when it came to physical relationships.

Experimentally, Samara added pressure to their connection. Seconds ticked by and Daryl didn't shy away, giving her the courage to finally seal the deal with a proper kiss. Neither of the two closed their eyes, instead opting to gaze at each other, fearing that if they lost the connection they would have to step out of this surreal situation. The kiss was light, just lips against lips. It reminded Samara of how awkward and charming her first kiss had been, but her partner didn't seem to share her warm feelings as he remained as dead as a fish. This greatly confused the Native as she had expected some level of reciprocity and if not that then some resistance, but there was nothing. It was like Daryl had slipped into catatonia.

Abruptly, she ended the kiss as Daryl's vacant stare was becoming too much for her to bear. Her complete retreat broke the spell and had her landing back to the reality where she was a cantankerous former marshal and he was a gruff Georgia hunter and there was nothing more between them than passive dislike and grudging camaraderie.

What the hell has she expected? For him to pounce on her and shove his tongue down her throat?

Samara backed away, not once looking him in the eye. If she did, she knew she'd just see her own foolhardiness for attempting this whole fiasco reflected back at her. Briskly, she left his cell and descended the stairs for the safety of her own little room.

Samara plopped on the mattress and held her face in her hands. She felt drained and baffled and a tad angry. That forest dweller just sat there, stiff as a board, instead of giving her the answer she wanted. Was she Medusa now? Did she turn men into stone?

She knew he felt something since he had been the one to start this whole mess, but perhaps her sudden appearance and unusual behavior after days of evasion had caught him off guard and he hadn't known how to react. If that was the case then she really wasn't about to sit there and wait for him to figure what he wanted to do.

The Native laid down on the bed with one hand underneath her pillow, eyes staring straight ahead at the mattress above her in contemplation. At least her foray hadn't been a complete waste of time. Samara had finally come to terms with her attraction and some of the weight slipped off her shoulders. Not by much but enough to have her breathe easily. There was no more uncertainty and she felt like she was slowly regaining back control, perhaps even sleep soundlessly tonight.

That was _all_ she wanted.

Fingers tenderly touched her lips and traced the soft flesh. The feel of his lips against hers had been like tasting water after a long dehydration spell. The kiss hadn't been exactly the best she had ever had, being actually below average, but it still gave her that rush of adrenaline that she loved. She sucked in her lower lip as the sensation of his chapped yet deceptively yielding lips were still on her, not at all how she expected them to be like.

That thought alone made her smile in astonishment. Never had she _ever_ thought she would be remotely attracted to someone like Daryl Dixon—a man who was the antithesis of everything she had liked in men. Even kissing him hadn't repulsed her as she initially considered and if he had remotely given some leeway, she knew she would have enjoyed it.

 _Gods, how did things end up like this? This is all so dreamlike…_

But like with everything good, the bad must arise also. Her amusement slipped away as a knot settled in the middle of her throat. Despite her confirmations, now came the hardest part—

What now?

* * *

 _ **Foot Note:**_ It wasn't much, but it was something. For me this was a big step. I hope you enjoyed a taste of it.


	16. The Frog Prince

Daryl hasn't moved from his spot on the mattress for the last half hour. His body had shut down after the woman had left. Further, his brain had gone into overdrive in trying to understand what had just transpired.

What the hell just happened? Samara just walked in and touched his face and… _kissed_ him.

She had actually kissed _him_.

Was she high to have done that? He hadn't seen the signs of drugs or smelt alcohol on her breath when her lips were press—

He shook his head adamantly. _Don't think about it._

No matter how hard he tried, the feeling of her fingers gliding over his skin was persistent. It frustrated him as the memory just added more fuel to the fire that was his heated body. His whole physic was taunt as a bowstring and he could barely hold in his need to vent, to tear something, anything to get rid of this bubbling feeling inside the pit of his stomach.

Daryl touched his cheeks attempting to recreate the woman's path. No one had ever touched him in such a way. The Native had practically explored his face like a fine painting. What could she have possibly seen that made her so focused? He was acutely aware that he wasn't handsome like other men and he didn't look anything like the type of man she married, and yet…she still kissed him.

He just couldn't understand.

Samara had pulled away from him back in the forest. The shock and disbelief had been so glaringly obvious that Daryl had realized immediately that he had made a fatal mistake. He should have never divulged his own desire because her response had been painfully realistic, not the one he sometimes daydreamed about.

He hadn't been aware of his actions back then. Touching her had been an unconscious impulse as his body demanded to be reminded of the feel of her skin once again. He hadn't meant to alarm her in such a way that she viewed him as a threat, but unfortunately that was how it ended as she had kept her distance and avoided even looking at him.

He had brought this on himself, Daryl thought displeased. He should've known better than to let his guard down in a moment of weakness. The woman had obviously put the pieces together and realized the cause of his strange behavior. He had never felt more mortified and angry at himself than in that moment. All of his frustration had been poured into hacking away the boar, but even that hadn't helped.

They had silently, but stridently come to the mutual agreement of ignoring each other and Daryl had taken it with difficulty…but also a spark of relief. He hadn't wanted to confront his actions or clarify them so he had delved into work to forget. It would have been a success if it hadn't been for someone he should have expected but didn't that came and poked him with a long, pointy stick. All those buried feelings resurfaced once more and reminded him of the big elephant in the room. No matter what he did, he couldn't just brush them or the incident aside, but he wasn't about to confront them. If there was something Daryl avoided with a vengeance was making a fool of himself.

But then she came out of her own volition and showed him a side he hadn't been privy to before. She had been soft, not rough. Gentle, not malicious and he had lost himself in that. In that woman that was Samara, but at the same time wasn't. Then the illusion shattered as her lips pressed against his— _wet and pliable and lush_ —and realized that Samara was actually kissing him. Her. Samara. The bad-tempered marshal.

Daryl sighed jaggedly as his fingers grasped viciously at the jean material of his knees. _Calm down…Don't get worked up for nothin'._

What could he understand out of that?

 _Did she…_

That was impossible. She had no reason to.

Daryl paused as a thought crashed over his head and had his features steel over.

 _No…_ In all this mess he forgot one important thing. This was the goddamn marshal he was talking about. That exploitative, harsh, antagonistic woman he met back in Wiltshire. The one that physically and mentally fought him. Samara may seem docile now, but he knew there was a raging storm inside her that swallowed everything whole that tried to sail the volatile sea. Tigers don't change their stripes, after all.

His fingers clenched into fists making the material crunch under the strain. His frown turned into a full-blown glare as his sharp eyes tried to drill holes in the wall opposite him.

Was that it? Was she messing around with his head for her own gain?

—Did she find this _funny_?

His anger tangled his thoughts to the point rationally wasn't present anymore. He was just a compacted ball of rage, negativism and humiliation as his mind could envision the marshal laughing her guts out the moment she stepped out of his cell.

He wasn't about to stand for that.

* * *

Samara woke with a gasp, her heart almost jumping out her chest. The reason for this abrupt awakening came in the form of an angry hunter looming over her.

"What the fu—"

"Get dressed. We're gonna check the cage." With no further explanation he left her cell, the distancing echo of his boots all that was left behind.

She tried to wrap her mind around the fact that her first peaceful sleep in four days had just been crushed without mercy by the same man she had kissed a few hours ago. Falling back onto the mattress, she used her pillow to muffle the sound of her enraged scream.

 _That bastard!_

With wide red tinged eyes, she threw away her blanket and furiously clothed herself. At the moment, all thoughts of last night's unusual ardor flew out the window, leaving rage in its wake. First, that trailer-trash all but died on her the moment she locked lips and then woke her at six in the morning to go on a joyride in the forest.

He had some nerve.

It didn't take long for the woman to be fully dressed and equipped and out of the prison to join the hunter. The walk through the forest had been one of the most chagrined and tension-filled trip in her entire life. Daryl had been quiet the entire way, stewing in his anger, while Samara waited for the man to say something. She wasn't about to break the silence even if it did grate on her nerves.

The tension between them was reminiscence of the ones they had at the farm, where even their close proximity would have the other wish to gag.

With each step, Samara's displeasure heightened. She hoped he would speak soon or otherwise she would sock him for waking her up for a _murderously_ silent stroll through the forest. The Native was undeniably confused, but it was nothing compared to her continuous boiling rage.

It didn't take long to reach the clearing and as soon as the hunter entered, he froze and cursed loudly, enough to startle the person accompanying him.

"Son of a bitch!"

Samara's anger broke into astonishment as she saw the reason for such early foul language—there was a walker trapped inside the cage.

She sputtered.

Daryl abruptly turned to her, livid.

She choked.

His eyes narrowed to slits. _Don't you even think—_

She lost control the moment the walker made a dimwitted sound resembling a confused gorilla. Her laughter engulfed the edge of the forest as she let. Her previous annoyance shattered into a thousand pieces and the pressure inside her diffused to zero as all it took was one moment to break the camel's back.

Unfortunately, her partner didn't share in the hilarity as he looked seconds away from blowing his own fuse.

"You think this is funny?!"

"This is hysterical!" Samara wiped her teary eyes as she tittered madly. "You caught a walker. Daryl Dixon, the 'walker catcher'. It's got a nice ring to it."

"This ain't funny!" He bellowed, frustrated at the woman's unexpected reaction. "Stop laughin'!"

Regaining some of her control, Samara minimized her laughter to a low chuckle. The fury in him was starting to unnaturally bulge his veins and his grinding teeth could be heard from a distance, but for the life of her she didn't give a damn. She had no reason to listen after his rude awakening.

"What the hell's your problem?" Although she was still smiling, her eyes cut him like diamonds. In the wake of her amusement, spite rose and took its place.

"What's my problem? This is my goddamn problem!"

With a few flicks and a push, Daryl released the walker from the cage. The grubby monster made a grab at the nearest sack of flesh, its mouth almost salivating in hunger, only for it to be maliciously floored from a boot to its chest.

Samara watched impassively as Daryl began brutally kicking and hitting the walker, at times using his own crossbow as a weapon. Stopping him didn't even come to mind as she instead left him to vent his frustrations.

 _Better on a reanimated body than me._

"This sonovabitch thinks this is a game?" His voice rose with each word and Samara was awed that he didn't choke on his own rage. "That it's funny fuckin' up my trap?!"

"It's a walker, they don't think." She crossed her arms, already weary of this display of aggression. She hoped he would finish soon otherwise she'll leave the two of them to their 'alone' time.

The man's boot stomped atop the walker's head, cracking it in two. Dark grey liquid and a nauseating yellowish liquid oozed out complete with jello like black blood. It was revolting enough to have Samara scrounge up her face unattractively. With spite, the man grinded the bit of skull and what was left of that rotten brain into the dirt. With one last kick to the walkers already crushed ribs, Daryl rounded up on her with such intensity that it instantly put the woman on edge.

Not even during their more uglier bouts had he ever looked at her like that. She couldn't even put it into words, but she felt it in the pit of her heart—a sort of tear and stab. He marched straight towards her with a purpose that had Samara's clutch the handle of her gun. The danger was real and she wasn't about to be caught unprepared.

A harsh breath separated them and despite her body's reaction to maintain distance, Samara kept her ground. She would not be intimidated by this man, not after everything.

Daryl glowered as his fury seemed to make him tower over her. His blue eyes were two shards of ice as they drilled through her, but Samara could see the tempest just beyond the glacier—a storm that threatened to drown him.

"Since you know all the fuckin' answers why don't you tell me—Was it a game for you?" The woman's confusion only increased his levels of anxiety. "Were you tryin' to make a fool out of me? Tryin' to get under my skin for your own amusement?"

Samara's features cleared as she followed his train of thought. He believed her actions last night to have been born out of malicious intent. The urge to slap him until his head unscrewed off had never been more pressing than now.

—That's what he thought? That she had rubbed his attraction towards her in his face?

Was she really surprised that he thought that?

Swallowing her irritation, Samara spoke calmly, hoping to diffuse the yet again tense situation. "Daryl, I know we started on the wrong foot and I made it worse by constantly antagonizing you, but even you realize it's not the same as before. I wasn't trying to humiliate you."

"Then what the hell were you doin'?"

Samara observed his posture. It was anticipatory, as if waiting for her heartless retaliation. The Native frowned in contemplation—Was that what he wanted? For her to just come out and say it was all a cruel joke even if it wasn't true?

That was… _disappointing_.

She sighed crustily. Stepping away, she no longer could stand to be in his presence even thought her body said otherwise as it wept at the loss of his proximity. "… It doesn't matter anymore."

Daryl stared at her hard. She was retreating from this conversation and he couldn't have that.

Before Samara realized it, his hand was gently brushing across her jaw. Her attention immediately snapped back to him with an unnatural blankness at this unusual approach. When his thumb caressed her cheek, Daryl had to bear through her shudder and fluttering lashes.

"Feels crazy, don't it?" He swallowed thickly as his eyes followed the movements of his thumb circling her skin. "When someone does this to you and you got no fuckin' idea what their thinkin' or why their doin' it. They don't give you a reason, just do what they want and then _leave_."

With a hitch, his callous thumb reached the corner of her lips. He could feel beads of sweat gathering at the edge of his hair and his throat abruptly dried out. Boldly, his thumb continued on its way and caressed the woman's lips, rooting her in place as she stared with wide, shocked eyes.

Her lips were just as plush as Daryl remembered them…

He took a deep breath to settle his jitters. "They just walk up to you and kiss you and you don't know what the hell is goin' on or what to think."

His finger pulled on her lower lip making her mouth part with a gasp. Fascinated, he watched as her lip plopped back into place with a faint wet sound that shot straight to his groin. It had been grievously hard, but he ultimately managed to pull his eyes away from the sight of her darkened cheeks.

"What were you doin'?" He asked her directly this time, his eyes never leaving her.

"I was trying to figure something out." She responded breathily, not at all in control of her body.

"What?"

She shrugged, attempting to treat this as nonchalantly as possible. Daryl's hands moved to cup her cheek, his own body reacting like an opened valve once he realized that the warmth underneath his fingers was a furious blush.

"You don't get to shrug this one off. You made this my problem as well."

Seconds ticked with no response from the woman, prompting Daryl's impulsivity. He gripped her jaw harder than would have liked, his fingers digging into her skin.

"Tell me." His voice lost its soft edge opting for a more severe one.

The abrupt change shook Samara out of her daze and rapidly had her glare. His briskness was not appreciated from the way the woman gripped the man's wrist, her fingernails leaving raw crescent moons.

—On an afterthought, it was amazing how easily the mood between them bounced from anger to lust to irritation.

"Get your hand off me!" His hand was ripped from her jaw.

Samara and Daryl remained standing side by side, glaring at each other with all their will.

With a huff, the woman arranged the imaginary rumples in her jacket as she tried to hide her mortification. She had always quietly disliked emotional conversations since they evoked a side of her she wasn't used to showing freely.

"I was trying to come to terms with something. Something that I think you were also trying to back in the forest."

"And?"

Her eyes flattened pointedly. "I know you're not stupid. The fact that I kissed you is obvious that…" She stopped speaking further as the words literally clogged in the middle of her throat and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't finish the rest of her sentence.

With a sigh, Samara let the matter rest lest her previous exhaustion rise up once again. "Fuck it, it doesn't matter anymore. Some things are better left as they are—"

"Try again."

The Native blinked owlishly. "What?"

Daryl sighed gruffly before looking her deep in the eyes. "I said try _again_."

A tense silence settled over them. Samara waited for the joke but it never came.

 _He was serious_ , she thought as her eyes widened in realization. Samara observed his nervousness and knew there was no dishonesty to his actions. He was terrifyingly genuine.

 _Well…if you insist._

Slowly so not to spook him, Samara took a step closer. Daryl watched her attentively and she saw his minute flinch the moment her chest faintly brushed against his.

The Native had to raise herself on her toes to reach his lips, but stopped short as their breaths intermingled. This was his last chance to back out, but Daryl seemed adamant in holding his ground. In fact, he kept glancing at her lips with an expectant look. With a spark of exhilaration, Samara ran the last few miles and pressed her lips against his.

The kiss was faint, a phantom brush, but she clearly felt the tremor that passed through his body. They stared at each other clearheaded as their lips merely touched. There was no pressure, no hurry, but the moment Samara felt no opposition from him, she deepened the kiss.

As before, Daryl was frozen on the spot and Samara almost sighed in resignation. _Dammit, not this again._

Perhaps he had felt her frustration or he had finally built up the courage seeing as the man finally, slowly but surely responded to her. Their lips moved against one another awkwardly at first, hesitant of the other's reaction. They tested one another to see who would back out first.

Bemusedly, this really did remind Samara of her first kiss—slow and anxious of doing the wrong thing that would make the other bolt or cringe. Only this time Samara was attempting to establish a connection. To see if it were possible after everything that's transpired between them.

Her fingers settled gently on his chest as they found a rhythm in their kiss. It was still moderate in speed, but it fitted them nicely for the moment. Samara tilted her head to allow him better access causing the hunter to cup the side of her neck, his thumb brushing the skin of her cheek.

The pool at the core of her being bubbled as the heat increased and Samara felt butterflies in her stomach. This wasn't enough though. She wanted _more_.

Coaxingly, she sneaked her tongue over his lips. His response was unexpected as a deep rumble resonated in his throat and, not even a moment later, he eagerly surged in. Their tongues dance against each another as the temperature rose. The kiss became deeper and more passionate as they took it on themselves to explore every corner their mouths. The feel of his tongue glide smoothly against hers had her fingers bunch up the material of his jacket in attempt to anchor herself and failing spectacularly.

Samara gasped once Daryl's hand reached the back of her head and pushed her into him, further deepening the kiss. He had lost all inhibition and was _touching, feeling, kissing_ her without restraint. His free hand settled on the center of her back, caging her against him and leaving no room for escape.

Her reaction was immediate—her pelvis molded against his while one hand freed itself from its confinement and scratched at his scalp eliciting a guttural growl.

With urgency, Daryl backed the woman until she hit the tree behind her. She barely even noticed the rough, cold bark digging into her as she cushioned Daryl's full weight. With abandon, Samara threw one of her legs over the back of his thigh and pushed him even closer into her so that they were practically melding. With a hiss, the man's hand slid from her back to her hip and squeezed causing a gasp to leave the Native.

By now both her hands were either scratching at his hair or gripping the back of his jacket. Their breaths had become so labored that Samara actually became lightheaded. If she didn't stop and breathe she knew she'd probably lose consciousness, but it felt so _good_ that she never wanted to part and the man before her didn't seem to mind their immediate lack of oxygen as he fervently explored the interior of her mouth.

Gripping his hair, she pulled on it until Daryl couldn't ignore the annoyance anymore and disconnected from her lips. Samara wheezed as she gulped large chunks of air.

"Gods…" Samara let her head drop back on the tree as she tried to regain her out of control beating heart. It felt like she had a race car inside her chest, constantly drifting at full speed.

Her foggy vision found the man before her with his elbow settled beside her head and currently leaning on it. His eyes were closed tightly as he focused on his own heavy breathing. That hand on her hip had released her from some of the pressure, but she could feel his thumb circling over the thin material peeking out from underneath her jacket.

With heated cheeks, Samara became acutely aware of his body still comfortably nestled against hers and...Oh.

 _Oh._

Her mind blanched for a moment as she could feel _other_ things hardly pressed against her.

 _Ah, the dizziness is back._

Samara swallowed thickly as she tried to ignore that particular problem pressing against her lower half. Right now, she wished nothing more than to get swallowed by the earth just so her hands wouldn't be tempted to travel to that one location.

It seemed Daryl hadn't notice his problem or he did and that was the reason for shielding his face. The Native swore she was enticed to let things unfurl and come what may, but banging their brains out in the middle of a chilly forest was not her idea of a good time. Besides, the presence of a stinking dead walker would make things _weird_.

Her tongue licked her thoroughly abused lips and instantly her stomach did another warm flip. She hadn't had a kiss that intense in what felt like centuries, but her brain chalked it up to the prolonged time since she hadn't locked lips with anyone or felt that sort of passion that made her believe it was _phenomenal_. They both were out of practice but it hadn't stopped them from almost devouring one another.

Rustle.

The hunter pushed himself away from the coarse tree trunk and his gaze landed back on her. There were barely any traces of his earlier agitation as his hand dislodged from her hip and cupped her jaw with his rogue thumb softly caressing her wet lips.

Samara leaned into his touch as she scrutinized his features. He was a far cry from his earlier self wrecked by doubts, uncertainties and frustrations. Back was his collected cool and perceptive gaze and Samara was glad for it. That nervousness, while charmingly endearing, was not something she preferred in men. They were undesirable traits in the long run.

… _Long run?_

That thought was quickly pushed back as her focus reverted back to his features. He appeared so clearheaded and calm that it rubbed off on Samara's own jangled nerves, comforting them.

 _So this is what you look like without those barriers around you,_ Samara thought as her fingers brushed aside some stray locks from his eyes.

He was… _sweet_.

A rustle of branches startled them.

A short distance away, a deer crawled out of the thicket curiously watching them.

"Don't move."

Samara nodded imperceptibly as she watched the deer step closer to the cage, attracted by the scent of the bait. Its beady eyes never left them, cautious of a sudden attack. With a sniff at the walker corpse, the deer sneezed loudly and quickly dashed away, the smell no doubt scaring it off.

Samara's shoulders slumped. _There goes our deer._

Daryl stepped away from her, cursing their luck, and Samara almost groaned out loud at the loss of contact. The man had practically been a large human blanket equipped with warming system and now she was thrown back into the chilly morning air.

And with that back to reality.

The Native could see the astonishment slowly crawl over the hunter's features and burn the tips of his ears. He had just passionately made out with the one woman that was the polar opposite of him and what was even more shocking was that she reciprocated that passion with the same fervor.

—Denial was something they could no longer hide behind. Everything was clear now.

Samara sighed as she leaned back on the tree, her eyes upwards into the budding canopy. "I don't think there's any room left for interpretation, is there?"

Daryl racked his fingers through his hair and felt the swollen skin from where Samara's nails had traced a path. A shudder threatened to pool down at his groin, but he swallowed back the sensation. He needed to think with this head right now, not his body. He had barely managed to cool himself down from his earlier bout of excitement.

"What do you wanna do?" Daryl asked in a low, clear voice. "I'm not an idiot and I ain't a dreamer either. I know how it is between us. That's why before I never tried to…"

He didn't have to finish, Samara understood. The woman shrugged at a loss on how to proceed. She knew what she wanted from him, but thinking is easier than actually acting on it. It involved both trusting each other not to try something despicable. It would be a moment of weakness where both their guards would be down.

"It'll pass." Daryl continued lost in thought with an unreadable gaze. "It's just one of those things that need time."

Samara huffed in faint amusement. "Somehow, I don't think time is going to be enough. It'll probably just make it worse."

And judging from the man's sudden avoidance, he probably came to the same conclusion.

 _Shit, I'm too old for this._

Pushing herself away from the safety of the tree, Samara approached the man with a respectful distance. Right now, both were too aware of the other's body to be in close proximity lest their degenerate behavior return with force and they end up on the ground, tearing their clothes off.

"Daryl, we're both too old to be having crushes, so I'm asking you directly—" She took a deep breath as she steadied her tone. "Do you want to sleep with me?"

His frown returned as his eyes narrowed dubiously. "You already know the answer, why—"

"No, I mean _truly_." She interrupted, crossing her arms over her chest. "I want to get rid of this problem as soon as possible and I'm sure that if we leave this unresolved, we're going to implode at the worst possible moment."

Samara didn't have time to be a hormonal teenager and she doubted the man before her wanted that also. They had their lives and their worries to think about which didn't involve them constantly thinking of sexual release and torturing themselves over it.

"I'm willing." Her voice smoothed into velvet and Daryl's attention was back to her lips. "The fact that we both _painstakingly_ enjoyed that kiss is pretty obvious. Think about it—this would be just a onetime thing and we both get what we want out of it. We don't have to ever talk about it again, just chalk it up to a bizarre experience we once shared." The corner of her lips quirked into a bemused smirk. "We might actually enjoy each other for once."

The man exhaled harshly as his blue eyes frosted over. "What you're askin' ain't that easy."

"I know, but I still want to do it."

Daryl's teeth gritted. She might be resolute in her decision, but the hunter wasn't…Because he wasn't sure he could leave it at that.

The woman sighed in disappointment. She had hoped they would settle their problem once and for all, but yet again Daryl hesitated. In this moment, Samara wasn't sure if his reluctance was a product of his natural defense or if he was just that uncertain.

Too aggravated to challenge his silence, the Native occupied herself with dragging the walker away from the cage.

"Leave it." Daryl said as he picked up his discarded crossbow. "Herd ain't gonna come back after knowing we and that thing were here."

"Where do we move it then?" She asked as she dropped the walker's legs and wiped the grit left on her gloves on a tree trunk.

"I'll move it."

Samara paused. He didn't want her to accompany him. Daryl most likely was looking for time alone to process everything that's happened in the span of less than eight hours and, unexpectedly, the woman had no qualms with that. Samara would be lying if she said she didn't crave solitude to clear out her own thoughts.

The Native nodded and turned away from the man, intent on returning to the prison. Reaching the tree that she had been pinned down to, Samara bit her lip in remembrance. She wanted to experience that physical intimacy again, even if for just a moment in time.

"Hey…"

Daryl gazed at her from the corner of his eye.

"If you change your mind, I'll be in gym." She had never been more sure and clearheaded than she was at the moment. "But I'm not waiting indefinitely."

* * *

 _ **Foot Note:**_ If any of y'all are either confused or repulsed by Daryl's skittishness, understand that this is not a guy who's open about his feelings or act on them impulsively unless he was _absolutely,_ 100% sure. I read somewhere in an interview that even Norman thought of his character as an 'emotional virgin' (not to be confused with physical virgin because Daryl isn't) and I'd like to portray him like that. He's unaware of how to approach this whole ordeal with Samara so that's why he's lashing out angrily and retreating as if burned in the next moment. It's also been seen in the show that he has a predilection for outburst when he's highly emotional.

Frustrating for both parties, I know, and probably to you too, but I've said before that I like making things difficult, so bear with me.


	17. Just the Once

Keeping his mind distracted proved to be far more difficult than Daryl had imagined. Their passionate kiss kept replaying itself clearly in his mind. The feel of her body against his, her breath ghosting over his skin, the heat sweltering between them—all detractors from his task of dismantling the cage.

Daryl groaned in indignity as he remembered that particular moment where his dazed brain had deemed it necessary to awaken certain parts of his body. What was worse was the torment of not acting on those instincts. Samara had opened herself up to him and he had wanted nothing more than to dive in and reap the bliss for all that it was worth, but his honed survival instincts and rationality had pulled the breaks on those lewd thoughts and given him a good wake up call.

What she had proposed had caught him off guard so unexpectedly that he promptly sought seclusion. He had never thought they would ever go beyond what just happened in the forest or even that. Samara had always been far too engraved in her prejudices and he wasn't in the habit of forcing anything on himself or others. Daryl was perfectly capable of suppressing his desires indefinitely; he'd been doing that for most of his life so he had the practice and resolve, but what Samara offered was a complete liberation from undergoing such a scrupulous and aching burden. She called what they suffered from a _problem_ and, perhaps, that's what it was. The woman was intent on fixing it to regain their usual status quo, and somewhere along realizing her train of thought, Daryl withdrew.

—Did he _want_ to go back to what it used to be? After tasting something that for him appeared forbidden? Did he want to return to petty arguments, jabs and snaps?

The answer was clear and that was what made it so alarming.

He'd known even before becoming the temporary owner of her photos that Samara was above average in beauty. Even as they fought and snapped at each other and revealed parts of their uglier sides, he still noticed her exterior attractiveness. Not enough to have him think beyond that, just as a constant reminder. As the months passed and the cold and loneliness of a grey winter got to him, he had resorted more and more to gazing at her photos. There had been times when he had imagined what it would be like to touch her. For her not to look at him like she wanted to break something over his head or grimace like a foul odor was near.

And now he had his answer, didn't he?

Never had he ever thought something like that was possible. He still remembered her like she used to be as if it only happened a day passed instead of months—that harpy of a woman that loved to irritate him at every turn and was not afraid to brawl, no matter that the outcome would not always be in her favor. Even now he saw glimpses of her former self when she was angry, but most of the time she had been content with their silent impasse and he would be lying if he said he didn't prefer her newfound cooperation instead of her hatred. At least this way he was able to be around her without her trying to bite his head off.

But now everything had changed again. Not only did she willingly approach him without a trace of disgust or unease, but she actually kissed him with the same amount of excitement she used in her anger. In those few precious moments Daryl had felt beyond _elated_. She had looked at him like he wasn't just some redneck from Georgia, like he had been a normal man and not some uneducated vagabond with a knack for hunting.

But her proposition…he was extremely uncertain.

He had been truthful when he said it wouldn't be easy. He had his reasons for not wanting anyone to see what lay engraved onto his skin. The amount of attention would be sickening and would, no doubt, raise his ire. Worse, if there was pity involved. That was one thing he could never stand. But it had been a long time since he felt a woman's soft skin against his. Long enough that he was seriously pondering her proposal.

It would be just the once and Samara was emotionally distant enough to let it go after. To never talk about it again, but he didn't trust himself. He had fantasized about her one time too many and it hadn't always been of a sexual nature. The most prominent had been where _he_ was the one in her husband's place in that photo. It wasn't done because he wanted _her_ specifically, but because he wanted to imagine what it would feel like to have anyone care about him so fiercely. It sounded stupid, maybe even pitiful, but it was his mind and he thought what he damn well pleased.

Would he be able to let it go at just one night?

After all this time, he wasn't sure just one night would be enough…or maybe it would, and he would be free of her. Free of staring at her whenever the opportunity presented itself, free of thinking about her, free of wanting something he couldn't have. He wouldn't have to worry or doubt every time he was near her that he'll do something atypical.

Daryl's felt the wooden piece of the cage creak under the pressure of his grip.

In the end, that unspoken stalemate was better than a toxic bundle of anxiety and dissatisfaction. The two of them might not be the most normal human beings left, but they at least recognized their particularities and _tried_ to work with them even if it didn't always work out for the best.

The hunter massaged his tired forehead. He could feel the beginnings of a headache as fatigue seeped into his bones and it wasn't even ten in the morning.

—He still had many hours until nightfall.

* * *

As she had promised, Samara vegetated in the gym, patiently waiting for Daryl's final decision. After this there would be no second chances. This was a onetime opportunity to vent.

The Native decided to take a more distant approach to all of this. If he did show up at least they'll get something out of the way, but if he didn't then that was that. She couldn't force him so she'll just have to repress the sensations or…well, there were always her fingers.

Samara chuckled deep in her chest. _Damn, I_ really _do feel like a teenager all over again._

Even now, at this crucial point of their future interactions, she still couldn't understand how she arrived at this moment. Just several weeks ago, her mind had been nowhere near the subject of sex or attraction, even less with someone like Dixon. And now here she was, waiting for said man to appear and thoroughly ravage her.

Her chuckle turned into a high-pitched frenzied titter as some of that control slipped her tight grasp.

 _This is just_ too _bizarre, I almost can't handle it_

The laughter abruptly ended as the door to the room opened. Samara's heart skipped a beat as she watched Daryl's form appear out of the shadows, his perpetual frown in place.

The silence that settled was deep and pungent.

In the wake of his appearance, Samara seemed to have lost most of her earlier cool and left grasping at straws. As the man approached, the unmistakable shape of a bottle filled with amber fluid was tightly held in his hand.

 _Liquid courage, huh?_

"It'd be just once, right?" Daryl said as his eyes flitted around, never remaining on Samara more than a second or two.

She nodded numbly.

With faint reluctance, Daryl motioned her to follow and Samara does with her heart in her throat. Their steps barely resounded as they walked the empty, concrete hallways.

"Where are we going?"

"Warden's office."

 _Good._ That room was isolated from their living area so the chances of sounds being heard were slim to none.

As they arrive at the office, Samara watched with a raised brow as Daryl shut the blinds and made sure that the door was locked. _Is he that nervous of someone spying on us?_

The hunter turned to her and that was when the awkwardness was revived. Neither made the first move as Samara stared intently at the man and Daryl stared at a point above her head. Her patience coming to an end, Samara sighed in frustration as she ran her hand through her hair.

 _He needs to get that stick out of his ass otherwise this'll never work._

With spidery fingers, she motioned for the bottle. Handing it over to her, Samara took a long and brisk drink from it. The effect was instantaneous—slight dizziness and a feeling of warmth spread throughout her stomach. She grimaced as the sharp, bitter taste of scotch had her almost regurgitate it.

Samara offered the bottle.

Daryl stared at it imperceptibly.

"Might as well loosen up a bit." Samara shrugged and pushed the bottle into his hand.

The man took a hefty swing from it, not at all impaired by its heady taste.

Samara sat on the coffee table while Daryl on the couch, passing the bottle between them every minute or so. Sex while drunk was not the Native's goal, but she needed to be buzzed enough to lose some inhibition. She didn't want to be as stiff as a board during their liaison.

It didn't take long for both to feel the effects of the alcohol drown their system into a lukewarm, relaxed pool.

"Why did you decide to come?" She asked as she passed the bottle.

Daryl shrugged indifferently. "Does it matter?"

The Native smirked as she watched him drink. In the long run it didn't. Once the deed was done and they stepped out of this room, life would return to normal.

"…Guess not."

As she drank her own share, she became aware of his probing stare.

"You've done this before."

Swallowing the bitter liquid, Samara gave a raised brow. "Sex with men I barely know? Yes, many years ago. My way of relaxing every now and then."

"Not a fan of relationships?"

"Never was."

They continued drinking in silence.

By now, they both were lightly buzzed and Samara started to appreciate the view before her. Oblivious to her predatory perusal, Daryl continued drinking and a small bead of amber liquid spilled from the corner of his mouth, alluringly rolling down his neck.

With a reckless force propelling her forward, Samara caged the man in with her arms on either side of his shoulders and knees of the edge of the couch. Her tongue sneaked out and traced the path of the tricky amber droplet. Daryl sputtered in surprise, managing to spill more alcohol much to Samara's delight. The man shuddered as she cleaned every spilled drop until that wicked tongue ended back at his lips and playfully licked.

Carelessly dropping the bottle on the floor, Daryl now had both his hands free and clumsily gripped her hips, settling her onto his lap with her thighs on either side of his, hugging tightly. Teeth bumped against teeth as the hunter gripped the back of her head and pushed her lips against his in desperation. The feel and taste of her wet and pliant lips shot directly to his groin and Samara wasn't in any better state as her fingers clawed at his scalp and clothes, eager for more.

For what felt like hours their lips locked in a deadly battle of control, each vying for the dominant part of their interlude. While Daryl was adamant in his position, the Native stubbornly refused to relent. Trust had never been something that came to them easily, but if this were to happen someone had to let go.

With an inward sigh, Samara lost her aggressive persistence.

"I have two rules." She said between labored breaths. "No marks and no touching after."

Pleased with his victory, Daryl nodded quickly and went back to leisurely exploring the wet cavern of her mouth as his arms molded her entirely against him. One of his hands sneaked away from her hip and dived underneath the fabric of her T-Shirt. With a grunt, Daryl explored the skin on her back, his fingers tracing the contour of her spine. Samara gasped once his hands migrated to her front and tentatively prodded the scar on her taunt abdomen. A product of an urgent cauterization, the scaly jagged flesh was a constant reminder of darker times. It must have left an impression on the hunter as he gently caressed the burnt skin, almost apologetically.

With a nip at his tongue, Samara urged him to skip her small deformity and continue on his path. Obligingly, Daryl sought out her ribs, counting each one before reaching his destination—the edge of her breasts. Samara disconnected from his lips and with dexterous hands, took off her shirt. Daryl swallowed thickly as the Native remained bare from the waist up, her assets exposed for his viewing pleasure.

Patiently waiting, Samara watched as his fingers moved over her the curve of her breasts and reached the areola. With a hiss, she threw her head back as she lost herself to the bliss of those wicked fingers tweaking and squeezing every inch of her breasts. His rough palms felt so sinfully good on her heated skin that Samara's nails unconsciously dug into his shoulder, causing the hunter to become more thrilled in his actions. The moment his mouth replaced his fingers, Samara had to hold in a loud and piercing moan from escaping. She whimpered behind her hand as that warm tongue danced across her breast with teeth nipping and lips sucking while his other hand freely explored its twin.

Not being able anymore to sustain such an attack on her senses, Samara pushed the man until he hit the back of the couch and got off him to take off the rest of her clothes. She kicked off her sneakers and socks and shimmied out of her sweatpants, leaving her only in a pair of black panties. All of this happened in the span of less than a minute and Daryl sat there, wide eyed, at the woman's swiftness. In a blink of an eye, the Native went from partially clothed to naked as Eve in the Garden.

With a coquettish sway, she knocked his knees apart with her own to make way. Widening the gap, Samara settled to stand between his legs, no word spoken.

Daryl's eyes roved over her bare body with wonder and felt his pants constrain against him.

 _She really is beautiful…_

There was no smile or seductive smirk over Samara's lips, just a calm, inquisitive look.

Blue irises stopped on the other myriad of scars she sported. Some small others big, some faint others noticeable. He vaguely remembered them from that time he stitched her up, but considering how high-strung that situation had been, he must have forgotten or at the very least not noticed. He recognized bullet holes and stab marks and wondered at the age of them—if they had been procured in this new world or the old one.

A hand on his shoulder brought him out of his reverie and his attention snapped upwards. Samara used him to balance herself while she settled back on his lap. Like clockwork, one of Daryl's hands returned to her hips with his thumb attentively brushing circles. The other hand fished something crinkly out of his pocket.

"You don't need that." Samara stared impassively at the condom.

The man frowned, suddenly apprehensive. "I ain't riskin' you gettin' pregnant."

"Trust me, everything down there doesn't work anymore. It would be a medical miracle for me to get pregnant again."

 _Again?_

But Daryl didn't ask. He wasn't here for that.

"I'm guessing you don't have anything transmissible?" Some of her scathing tones reared its ugly head. "Because I would be really pissed off if you did."

"No." The man scoffed, slightly peeved at the insinuation. "Do you?"

"No."

With no further words needed, Samara reached for his shirt and started unbuttoning the top while Daryl the bottom. Minus his shirt, Daryl froze as the woman reached for the end of his undershirt intent on pulling it off.

His hands brusquely gripped hers, effective immediately bringing them to a halt.

There is a deafening silence as their communication reserved itself to nothing but their eyes. There was a palpable warning and a faint shadow of pleading not to go further. With a light exhale, Samara let go of the edge of his shirt. If he didn't want to take it off then she wouldn't force him.

Wasting no more time, she moved further down and began unbuckling his belt. Daryl's lips attached themselves to her neck, biting and kissing, while his hands mimicked the woman's down spiral and knead her firm backside. Samara groaned as his fingers dug into her skin, leaving dimples in their wake.

Fleetingly, she mulled that for someone as emotionally and physically repressed as the hunter, he was actually quite knowledgeable and attentive.

It was Daryl's turn to groan as Samara's hand slipped inside his boxers and brushed against his warm flesh. The woman smirked as his forehead collided with her shoulder, no doubt feverish from the attention. He was already half hard, Samara realized with red cheeks as her fingers moved over him and suddenly gripped.

"Fuck…" The hunter hissed as his fingers dug even deeper into her rump.

Samara bit his ear as she slowly began to pump him. Her tongue played with his lobe making vulgar wet sounds to the man's infinite torture. There was no denying that at this point Samara was dragging everything out just to tease. In retaliation, his hand moved underneath the black fabric and touched her most private part.

The Native paused, shuddered and groaned breathlessly. Now it was her turn to twitch and flinch as crafty fingers played her engorged flesh with rough sensuality. With a smirk bordering on arrogance, Daryl watched the woman's ever-changing expression as she flew from one state of ecstasy to another.

No longer was there any awkwardness or uncertainty between them. Now, both took what they wanted to satisfy their own needs.

Samara almost went cross-eyed as Daryl massaged a particularly pleasurable spot. When one of his fingers circled around her opening was when she snapped and grabbed a fistful of his hair, pulling harshly. Daryl hissed and before he could snap at her, she fiercely covered his lips with hers. Daryl soon forgot his anger and immersed himself into their passionate kiss.

From there, things accelerated almost too fast for either of them to comprehend.

Daryl's hands dislodged from her lower half and Samara felt the room spin as she was turned and thrown onto the couch. With frantic movements, the hunter all but ripped the panties off her legs and threw them somewhere behind him. His breath heaved as he pushed his pants and boxers lower over his thighs and positioned himself between her legs as they wrapped around his lower back urgently.

Samara grinded her apex against his manhood and Daryl sucked in a sharp breath. One hand slithered down and touched her wet core causing the woman to bite her lip erotically.

—She was more than ready.

Daryl placed his elbow beside her head as his other hand grabbed onto her thigh and he waited no further. He slid himself inside her to the hilt, a groan of relief escaping him.

Samara's back arched with a silent scream as her breasts pressed against him. Her fingers sunk into his shoulder, nails leaving crescent red marks.

"Oh Gods!"

"Shit." Daryl was startled out of his bliss. Her pain-filled contorted features dampened some of his arousal. "You alright?"

"You ass!" Samara slapped him. Not hard, but enough to astonish him. "You can't just slide right in like that! I haven't been with anyone in a year! Just…wait a few seconds and be gentler next time."

The Native let her head fall back on the couch and waited for her insides to adjust to the intrusion. Daryl on the other hand was barely holding onto his self-control as he desperately wanted to move. She was so _tight_ it almost felt like punishment not being allowed to sink into this feeling.

Samara took a few deep breaths before her leg slid over his backside and pushed him into her. Daryl took this as a confirmation and began to slowly rock against her. Samara moaned lowly as he thrust into her, each gaining speed and power by the passing second. At first, it burned and the Native gritted her teeth more in pain than pleasure, but as the seconds passed, Samara began to experience sweetness and began meeting his thrusts.

Her lips found his and they lost themselves in the pleasure of their joining. There was an urgency to their actions as they, no doubt, were anxious to reach their peak. Samara nibbled on his lower lip, eager to draw blood, but the hunter slipped out of her grasp attacked her breast. Throwing her head back, Samara's legs tightened over his hips, almost crushingly and sunk her nails into his undershirt.

The only thing that could be heard in the room was their panting breaths, their low moans and groans and sleek skin striking skin.

Samara's hands smoothed over his back and reached the end of his shirt. Unwittingly, her fingers moved underneath the fabric and touched his back. Daryl was too distracted to notice, but when her fingers roamed upwards and touched jagged skin was when the hunter snapped out of his erotic haze. Callous hands caught her wrists in an iron grip and ripped them away from his back, slamming them against the couch's armrest. The shock was apparent on Samara's face as she faced the dangerous spark inside the world of fervor that was his frozen blue eyes.

"Don't do that."

The threatening edge to his gravel voice had the opposite reaction than the one intended.

"Yeah…Like that." Samara's eyes dreamily narrowed into half-lids. Her arousal had spiked to such heights that she barely thought straight as her head rose and pornographically licked his lips. "Hold me just like that."

Daryl shut his eyes tight as she bit his lower lip, drawing blood before tenderly sucking the crimson liquid. His aggression melted into ardor and, in a blink of an eye, forgot her offense.

Sex turned from heated to feral with a tinge of desperation and anger. The blood in her hands poorly circulated due to Daryl's harsh grip, but Samara didn't mind the increasing numbness. She just wanted him to break this sofa with them atop it.

Samara swore shallowly as she met each powerful thrust with her one. There was barely any coherent thought running through her head, her entire being concentrated on that delicious pressure at the core of her being. Samara's heels dug into his lower back and backside, urging him to hurry. She was close and could almost taste Nirvana as the pressure grew and threatened to rip her into pieces.

"Faster." She pleaded with him, bordering on tears.

Readily, he obliged and Daryl had to muffle her screams with his palm. His other hand abandoned her wrist in favor of gripping her behind tightly so he could elevate her for a better angle. Daryl shut his eyes tight as he himself felt his peak nearing. By now his thrusts were short and powerful, rocking the body beneath him strongly. There was no time to delve on his partner's satisfaction as he only worried with attaining his own.

Samara wasn't in any better shape as thoughts of what Daryl felt or wanted were just imperceptible dots on a very large, dark colored canvas. Her eyes shut tightly as she shrieked in his palm, tempted to bite him. She was so close, just a little bit more and this _exquisite_ torture was over.

A few more thrusts and she got her wish.

Daryl's next push had her seeing stars—a supernova right before her eyes, deafening her to the world around. Even her voice left her as her eyes rolled into the back of her head and her lashes fluttered shut. Samara arched into Daryl, pressing against him flush as she rode her orgasm to its very last pulse.

But the torture didn't end there. Daryl still hadn't reached his climax and his continuous actions felt like lightning striking her nerves repeatedly and without mercy. She whimpered in his palm as her legs trembled against him, hugging him like an anaconda. Her fingers sank in the couch's arm as deeply as possible because she knew that if idle, they would be drawing blood.

Daryl gripped the armrest and concentrated on nothing but the feel of their joining. Nothing else in the world matter except for that sweet release he was craving. Sweat dripped down his brow as fingers strained with the pressure on the leather couch.

With one last thrust, Daryl joined Samara in the same paradise she had fallen into. His head crashed into her shoulder, his teeth grinding to stop himself from yelling out loud as he rode out his orgasm. Daryl groaned as he rocked against her milking muscles, prolonging this painful-sweet release. He wanted everything, even the last sparks of the dying fire.

His thrust began to gradually slow until there was nothing left but their heaving breaths and the last trails of their rapture. Samara captured his wrist and wretched it from her mouth, her harsh pant loud for anyone to hear. The hunter took no notice as he rested his damp temple against the valley of her breasts.

They lay like this, simply resting in the post-coital glow.

Samara was the first to break their connection. Her legs disentangled from his and gently pushed him away so she could breathe properly. Daryl obliged without fuss as he moved to the other end of the couch after tucking himself in. He sat there, his eyes going in and out of focus as his heart still beat wildly inside his chest.

Samara rose to a sitting position, careful of her still tender nether regions. Even with her vision still blurry, she spotted her panties lying discarded by Daryl's leg and pointed towards them. Lazily, the man picked them up and held them out for her to take. Samara wasted no time as she slid them back over her lean legs, aware that Daryl's eyes were watching her every move.

There were no words spoken between them as their minds were still wrapping around the act they had just committed. Now that she no longer felt that madness that overcame her, Samara felt clear-headed despite the alcohol in her system. There was a roller-coaster of emotions she was going through and she couldn't understand just how carelessly she was handling them as if they were nothing but a background noise.

A click snapped her to attention and she saw a small flame as Daryl lit up a cigarette. She motioned for one and Daryl obliged her with a second. There was something strangely therapeutic at having nicotine fill her lungs. Almost nostalgic.

Drawing her knees to her chest, Samara relaxed as she snuggled against the couch, not at all troubled by her nudity. The hunter had already seen everything, leaving nothing else for the imagination. There were still small traces of her orgasm wrecking through her body and she tried to cling to them as long as she was capable. Who knew how long it would be until her next or if she ever had one again. She wanted to remember this moment.

Through the grey clouds of his cigarette, Daryl watched her subtlety. He hadn't expected their joining to be so powerful or intense. Even now, he couldn't help himself from replaying in his mind's eye snippets of what just occurred—a moan, a tantalizing curve, vibrant ink on skin. It felt like a puzzle piece had just been dropped into its rightful place after so many months of trying to force it into the wrong position.

There was relief, peacefulness and…he wanted to touch her again.

Taking advantage of her distracted self, his hand instinctively reached out for her, letting his fingers brush against her bare ankle. With a flutter of her dark lashes, Samara's dreamy gaze settled on his butterfly touch. With calmness uncharacteristic of her, she observed his ministrations in complete absorption. Daryl's fingers ventured further up her leg, brushing against her calf. He felt a small tremor go through her leg and goosebumps rose.

Blue eyes rose to connect with hers and he froze.

—Samara was glaring disapprovingly.

With a sharp jerk she deflected his affectionate hand. Daryl tried to understand this sudden turn in mood when it hit him.

"… _no touching after."_

That was what she had said.

He wasn't supposed to have done that.

The air around the room, where not just a few minutes ago had been arduous and serene, was now tense and grievous. The fantasy had been shattered and reality was crashing down over Daryl's head.

Samara broke eye contact and stubbed her cigarette on the coffee table. She sat up, exposing herself entirely as she started collecting her clothes. With her back to him, blue eyes landed on glaringly red crescent moons on her rump, courtesy of his grubby fingers. He almost felt sorry for doing that. _Almost_.

If he had less control, Daryl would have sighed in disappointment as she gradually began covering her body. He would be lying if he said he didn't want to bask in that bare image of hers for just a little while longer. The night was still young and he wished they just had a little more time, but such liaisons weren't meant to be lengthy and affectionate, but short and ardent.

His customary frown settled right back over his features and he picked up the forgotten bottle of alcohol. He had the sudden urge to drink to his heart's content.

As soon as she was finished dressing, Samara walked towards the door and unlocked it. A pause in her step was all it took to recapture Daryl's attention. Her head turned fractionally, not enough to see him but enough to try and convey something. The hunter saw her lips part and waited with his breath on hold.

But no words came as the woman shook her head abruptly, turning away any thoughts she might have wanted to vocalize.

The sound of the door closing with a small click had Daryl crash back on the couch with a half-finished cigarette in one hand and half a bottle of scotch in the other. He vehemently tried to ignore the odd hollowness that crawled into the middle of his chest and was making a burrow there.

* * *

 _ **Foot Note:**_ So…That was that. Huh…

Writing sex scenes is uncharted territory for me and I've had to battle my decision to introduce any in this fic, but since sex is an important factor between Daryl and Samara's relationship, it can't be helped. It's not that I'm squeamish (maybe a little), but for me this is something very _intimate_. Plus, I don't always see it as necessary to add. It feels strange just pouring it out on blank page for others to see.

Was it done tastefully or was it too porno? Fluid or mechanic?

Anyways, I hope it whet your appetite. I think some of you have been waiting for the romance (I'm using this term lightly right now) stuff for a very long time and I hope I didn't disappoint.


	18. Backlash

_**Author's Note:**_ Wow! Thanks for the reviews, guys! I really do appreciate taking the time to write a few words. Puts a huge smile on this leathery face of mine.

To **veronicatolisano** – Heh, you're an enthusiastic fella, ain't ya? That's alright with me. Thanks for the BIG adjectives to describe my fic, I could almost imagine you shouting them out for the world to hear. Can't say I've got the best TWD fic of 2017, but it's the thought that counts. Cheers!

To **ChaoticKosMos xD** – Don't worry, dude. Your review was just right. I always did favor the long ones. It tells me that you really do have something on your mind than just 'omg, great chapter'. I'm happy that you noticed I kept Sam and Daryl in persona. I think if I had deviated from their characteristic responses based on everything I've written so far it would have been a betrayal. Neither is cute and cuddly and I'm not looking to have their troubles and uncertainties magically disappear, as you wrote. They're both human and struggling. Thanks!

To **Dejede** – Welcome to the fic, bro! Glad you enjoyed it thus far. Really? You didn't think Sam was a shrew after everything? That's…new and pleasantly unexpected. Most people do, even I at times. I write her as pragmatic, rational to a fault and, at times, selfish (which let's admit, we all are to different degrees), but for some reason people equate that to her being bitchy. It's refreshing to see someone view her in a different light. 'Great Expectations', huh? I vaguely recall this title (or maybe I'm just imagining it), but you say there's a resemblance? Hmmm, I might just read that book. I'm more of a fan of difficult love myself, sappy love is predictable. You read one, you read them all.

For those of you who have hoped this would turn into a RickXSamara fic...Sorry man, but I never said it was gonna be RickXOC. I did play with the idea at first and having them together would be interesting since Rick has a lot of drama revolving around his life, ultimately he's much more suited to be the friend. Besides, his future emotional baggage atop Samara's own would be overkill…In all honesty, tough, it could have gone both ways. Both men have some connection to Samara and both made an impact on her life, but when I thought of pairing Sam with Rick, my mind immediately jumped to writing another fic for Daryl and that…would be kind of a _pain_ considering I have three other fics on hiatus (although I do have ideas).

Sorry for the long post, enjoy the chapter!

* * *

"Samara."

"Samara?"

"Samara!"

The woman in question snapped to when she felt a jolt. Looking around, she was confronted by Andrea who was staring strangely at her.

"What the hell is up with you?" The woman eyed her passive demeanor. "You've been spacin' out all day."

Samara shook her head. "It's nothing."

The blonde wasn't convinced.

The two women were in Hershel's makeshift garden with the old man himself, the convict duo and Rick. They had the rough and dirty task of plowing the field needed to plants seeds. The only problem was the lack of horses to pull the small plow so they had to improvise with Oscar, Rick, Andrea and Samara acting as the large animals.

With a heave, Samara joined the others and began pulling the metal contraption. Her teeth grinded with the force she applied.

"I can't believe I'm doin' a horse's job." Oscar spat between clenched teeth.

"Until we find an actual horse we have to do it ourselves." Rick grunted as he almost slipped on the upturn earth. "This is the times we live in."

"Fuck the times! I ain't no goddamn horse."

Samara would have agreed on any number of days, but right now this harsh labor was the only thing keeping her mind focused. Ever since that night, she'd had problems concentrating and it was starting to become visibly noticeable. Every time she had a moment's break, her mind would torturously replay that sordid night in full detail making life unbearable.

"Stop pushin' down so much." Hershel instructed Axel who was handling the plow. "You don't have to push down, just forward. Let the dirt pull the plow down for you."

"Sorry, but I'm learnin', aren't I?" Axel frowned as he tried to follow the vet's instructions.

"Yes, you are and I really appreciate the help."

"Hey, Axel!" Oscar called out with sweat abundantly pouring down his forehead. "How about you start pullin' the reins and I plow?"

"No thanks, man." Axel pepped up, not for a moment wishing to switch sides. "I'm just startin' to get the hang of this."

The larger inmate sighed in frustration making Andrea snicker at his downtrodden expression. They were all in this together, they might as well suffer together.

Soon, a break was called and the supplement 'horses' were all in various positions of respite—some downright lying on the cool earth while others were bent over themselves with labored breaths.

Samara pushed against her lower spine and listened to the glorious pops and cracks. It didn't hurt the same as it did before, but there was this uncomfortable sensation that wouldn't go away no matter how many massages or exercises she did per day.

Her eyes perused over the grounds and found Daryl and Tyreese outside the prison area, loading up the walkers into the back of the Ford truck. They had the unpleasant duty of gathering corpses for the pyre. The Native swallowed thickly as she watched the Georgia man deep in his task. She hadn't spoken to Daryl since the 'incident' and she thanked the Gods for small mercies. Even if he attempted to, she wouldn't know what to say. While Samara no longer felt the 'itch', there was still _something_ that drew her attention to him. Like a whisper in the wind you couldn't help but aim to decipher.

"You ever think about them? Watchin' you like they do, all day?"

Samara blinked as Axel's voice interrupted her brooding thoughts.

"I try not to think about them at all." Hershel answered purposefully indifferent.

"I think about them all the time—who they were, what they did before they died." There was an odd whimsical tone to his voice as he stared at the corpses piled in the truck. "What jobs they had or if they had any family. I mean all them things used to be people. They all had lives."

"Like I said, I don't like thinkin' about it anymore." The farmer's words were final. He wished to skip this topic since it only dug up painful memories.

"But you did, right?" It seemed Axel didn't take the hint as he insisted. "I bet most of them were good people, like you or me—or well, _you_." He snickered in good nature. "I was no boy scout."

"What does it matter thinkin' about that?" Oscar interjected this time, slightly peeved. He himself had sad demons that he'd rather not be reminded of. "They're dead and that's that. You think what we did before the virus matters? Unless you were someone that used guns or did medical practice, there's really no need to know."

Axel sighed as a melancholic sheen settled over his eyes. "But it feels _normal_."

Samara scoffed under her breath. There was nothing normal these days, no matter how hard you tried to make it. In the end, it will always be a mirage with the walkers patiently waiting on the other side.

Like her and Daryl…

They could never return to normal—whatever that was—again. They had never been from the beginning, so how did she expect they would _now_? Sharing such an intimate experience had neither brought them closer nor distanced them; instead it bore other malicious thoughts that haunted Samara's each waking moment.

From the frying pan into the fire was all she could think of.

She mused over Oscar's words. Did the past really matter? Who they were and did had little to no consequence anymore. People were no longer ranked on their resume or place in society. Now, all that mattered was how capable you were to pull your own weight and how easily you were to adapt and incorporate into group dynamics. The fact that she had been a US marshal was inconsequential the moment government authority became just two words with no real meaning.

Her eyes slid back to the hunter. _I wonder…_

What had Daryl been before the virus? He had said that he once caught an elk for some rich man, but nothing additional. Mechanic, worker, builder? Even after all these months, she knew almost close to nothing about his past. He was a hunter, a tracker, had a brother who apparently was an asshole, was Georgia born and…that was it. No likes or dislikes, no family other than his nameless brother, no hobbies or favorite food ( _beside woodland critters_ ). The only thing the two of them had in common was tracking and ever shifting tempers. Not much to go by.

Samara scowled as she shook her head adamantly.

 _Dammit, stop thinking about him!_ The thought of that man inevitably led to—

 _Ah…_

The corner of her lips fell as the anxiety returned with a vengeance, holding her heart prisoner.

The sudden urge to bury her head in the sand felt all too tempting.

* * *

With a grunt, both Daryl and Tyreese picked up the dead walker. Sweat poured down the hunter's forehead as he heaved with the strain of the degraded corpse's weight. His motions were jaded and he knew he was holding Tyreese back, but he couldn't help himself. His thoughts were in another place altogether.

Again, his gaze strayed to the woman in the distance and Daryl sighed in discontent. The first few days after their late night rendezvous had been cathartic. He had finally reached that normality he had been craving. No longer did he think of her every moment of the day and he had been more productive in his tasks than he had been in a long time, but peace never lasts, though. After the quiet there was always a storm brewing and Daryl had reached that point. At first, it was just a prickle at the back of his mind. Something that he couldn't shake off nor understand, but as the days passed, it began to get increasingly clear.

And then it clicked.

Samara had been working on the garden with Hershel two days ago, bent over the soil with her hands deep in the earth and her behind sticking in the air. From his vantage point in the tower, Daryl had had a good view of their workings. His mind unwillingly wandered to the crescent moons he had left behind and wondered if they had healed by now. With the remembrance of that one image, the floodgates opened. The little things that hadn't been more than a shadow at the corner of his eyes were now as visible as the morning sun—the subtle sway in her hips, her strong, lean legs, the way her brows furrowed slightly inward when something annoyed her, the darkening of her irises when strong emotion coursed through her veins and the most he seemed to enjoy was watching those slim, spidery fingers work through earth and animal tissue without the slightest hesitation.

It had been subtle and before he knew it he was reeled back in the spider's web.

This had been _exactly_ what he had feared.

A second after his realization, Daryl immersed himself in his work, taking every task at hand and exhausting himself to the point that he no longer could think of anything else. How long could he keep this up, though? Sooner or later, it will catch up to him and yet again he will be sent in a world of emotional torture. When that happened his old haunt would be back and something deep inside told him that he wouldn't be able to escape it this time.

"You're mind's not in it, huh?"

Startled, Daryl snapped to attention. "What?"

"Whatever you're thinking of it's not these guys." Tyreese nodded towards the undead lying akimbo in the truck. "I get it. This is not the greatest of jobs, but it beats being a horse." His smirk widened as he watched the trio pull on the plow, each cursing and shouting indignities.

Daryl said nothing as he followed his gaze and, like clockwork, his eyes landed on Samara.

He felt his throat tighten and dry out worse than a desert. He had been wrong. Sex hadn't made him forget. In fact, it just made it worse. He had been given a taste of freedom from these overpowering thoughts and feelings only to be cruelly shot back down. The need to touch her again was growing with each passing day and it was beginning to become a problem even to his self-control.

Daryl didn't understand why, though. He's had flings before, but neither one had made much of an impression on him. They had been just something for him to past the time or vent when the pressure became too big to be contained. When it was all said and done, he soon forgot, never once having a problem of letting go.

And now in walked Samara, swiping away all the pieces on the chess board.

Unknowingly and without her fault, she had burrowed underneath his skin with no hurry in leaving. Once this realization came to him, it troubled him deeply. What was he supposed to do with this newfound knowledge? Daryl didn't want to be tangled with anybody, much less Samara. In these times, where life was so much more fleeting, it was nothing short of idiocy to get romantically attached.

Then why wasn't his body cooperating?

Daryl sighed gruffly as he turned his gaze from the woman. If he kept staring at her, he might burn holes in her.

The man beside him seemed to be more light-hearted than ever. Daryl knew that Tyreese had found a sense of familiarity with the statuesque Michonne, but for the life of him he just didn't understand why. He should be happy that he still had his sibling with him, alive and well.

How did he juggle these two circumstances in such perilous times? Was it love between him and Michonne or just physical companionship? He almost never saw the two of them together in the light of day and even when they were, Michonne rarely displayed affection.

"Hey, can I ask you somethin'?"

Tyreese nodded as they took a hold of another walker and began carrying it to the truck.

"You ever had a one night stand before?"

"I was in the NFL." The man smirked. "I may not have been the best, but the ladies still loved me."

Here is where Daryl hesitated. He did not want to broadcast his troubles to the world, but he needed outside advice. Right now, he was on foreign territory and had no idea how to proceed. "…You ever get attached to one?"

"Once. Shouldn't have done it though." Tyreese heaved as they both threw the walker atop the others. "I wasn't exactly available at the time and my girlfriend soon found out. It wasn't pretty."

"You regret it?"

"Yes and no. The girl I was seeing, she turned out to be one of the few loves of my life. Too bad she didn't think the same." Tyreese huffed as he remembered nostalgically. "Moved on to some other NFL player after I got forcibly retired. Guess she loved fame more than people." He shrugged hopelessly. "Why the interest?"

It was his turn to shrug.

"You got laid or something?"

Daryl didn't answer and as the awkward silence stretched on, Tyreese had his answer.

"Really? Good for you. I always thought sex was one of the best stress relievers." They picked up another corpse. "I guess if I ask who it was, you won't say."

The hunter frowned pointedly.

"I respect that."

"It ain't no stress reliever, it's a pain in the ass." Daryl said once the burden in his arms now resided on the truck bed. With a tired sigh, he leaned against the side of the truck with a far away gaze. "I can't stop thinkin' about it now."

"When was the last time you got some?"

Daryl shuffled in discomfort. This was another subject he did not like talking about, but forced himself to. "…Two years, maybe more."

Tyreese whistled in astonishment much to Daryl's chagrin. "Damn, that's a _long_ time. Must have hit you like a brick wall."

 _It did._

"Didn't want this to happen." Daryl growled in displeasure. He had just wanted to return to his routine. "It was supposed to be just the once."

"Doesn't always work out that way, brother. You tasted the forbidden fruit. That's bound to have some repercussions." Tyreese gave him a wistful smile as he crossed his arms against the truck. "Sometimes our hearts just have to make it more complicated."

Daryl snorted. "I don't need complications. Got enough on my mind."

Beside the world going to shit, his responsibilities took up most of his focus. He couldn't have himself distracted since it could potentially cost lives.

"This gal…" Daryl's icy gaze returned to the inquisitive Tyreese. "Do you _like_ her? As in more than just a bed partner?"

He paused. Did he?

He…wasn't sure. He hadn't thought past physical appearance and adamantly refused to because it would have been ludicrous of him. Even with past flames, he had never imagined any elaborate fantasies past a quick romp. He wasn't someone that followed the norms of society since he and his brother have always been considered outcasts and, as such, their behavior grew revolving around that word.

"I thought it would pass after we—" He cuts himself off at the last second. He wouldn't say it. "But it didn't. It just got worse."

"Yeah, it tends to do that." Tyreese chuckled genially before a thoughtful air surrounded him. "Can't tell you what to do if that's what you're trying to ask, but if you want my opinion I'd tell you not to throw this opportunity away. Any person that makes you feel like the world isn't such a dark place is worth some attention."

 _Doesn't mean she thinks the same…_

Even with this talk, Daryl was nowhere near a solid answer. His mind was still a torturous place to be in. He didn't regret sleeping with Samara. In the long run, it would have been much worse if he hadn't, but it didn't change the fact that now the dice had been cast in a whole new direction.

* * *

"Hmph!"

Samara breathed heavily as she repeatedly punched the heavy bag. After the tiresome session in plowing this morning, she had found solitude in the gym and vented her frustrations on the innocent bag. Time flew by and before she knew it, it was dark and Michonne came in for her nightly practice.

The sword-wielder was now currently working with some weights, but she kept Samara in the periphery of her vision. It was obvious the woman was struggling with something internally as anger practically exuded out of each pore.

With an angry scream, Samara punched the bag hard enough that the bones in her entire arm shook. Catching her breath, she watched with narrowed eyes as the abused bag swung from side to side helplessly.

 _Everything is wrong._

Samara flinched as dark clouds gathered. That soul crushing, tar colored emotion that made her feel so small had completely blind-sided her the first time she experienced it. She should have known better, should have predicted this would happen. You don't just easily sleep with another man after four years of marriage.

—Guilt was a bitch when it wanted to be.

The moment she stepped out of that office, it felt like lightning had struck her. It had been years since she felt shame of such degree that it stopped her dead in her tracks.

Did she just shamelessly cheat on her husband? How was that even possible? She hadn't thought about John in months and now all of the sudden he pops up in her brain, right after she slept with Dixon. It seemed that while she gradually began to let him go, his ghost wasn't about to. It didn't matter that he was dead; his memory still lived on in her heart. Maybe not to the degree it used to, but her life organ still skipped a beat when she thought of him.

Samara felt like shit and she didn't want to. She had expected to return to her usual dispositions before this whole affair with Dixon began, instead she was given a healthy dose of negativism that surprisingly had nothing to do with Dixon, but with herself.

The Native chuckled despondently. She couldn't even blame him for her foul mood.

"Penny for your thoughts?"

Samara watched the sword-wielder approach with cautious steps. Michonne was watching her calculatingly and in that moment, Samara hated her for it.

"You're going to need a whole lot of pennies if you want to hear my thoughts…" She paced furiously across the floor, clenching and unclenching her fists nervously.

Michonne was patient, though. She knew that soon Samara would talk. She had a limit to how much she could internalize and by the looks of it she was close to that limit.

The Native sighed heavily as she crossed her arms protectively in front of her and pegged Michonne with a bare look that knew exposed her insecurities.

"Did you ever experience guilt for feeling anything other than friendship for Tyreese?"

Michonne had not expected the question judging from the brief flash of surprise.

"Yes and no, but I'm trying not to care. I'm not going to make the mistake of getting stuck in the past. Nothing good comes out of it. Guilt and remorse are poison and if you let them, they'll destroy you." She said pensively as she reflected on her own choices. "The way I saw it, I had two options—stay in the same spot I've been for the past few months or move on." She nodded to herself as she broodingly lost herself in her thoughts. "I think I made the right decision."

She was right about guilt being poison, but Samara couldn't see herself just push aside her husband and start afresh.

"You know what the worst part is?" Samara scoffed without passion, avoiding the other woman's eyes. "It's not the guilt, although I wish it was. It's the craving for something I _shouldn't_ want."

Michonne seemed to understand what plight affected her as she became more alert to Samara's words. The Native was just grateful that she didn't push for a name. She already knew it and Samara had no desire to voice it because then it would become _real_ , not remain a hushed secret between her and the man in question.

"It's not right, not by a long shot, and yet…I can't help myself." Her lips contorted shamefully and Samara felt her heart beat faster in anxiety. "What is wrong with me? Of all the people left it had to be _him_."

"Maybe he's the path of least resistance." Michonne supplied.

"Because he already wants to sleep with me."

Her head titled curiously. "Is that so bad?"

"You don't understand, Michonne, you weren't there at the farm. You didn't see how we jumped at each other's throat. We argued daily and not the cute, fuzzy kind, the kind where we tried to _hurt_ each other in every way possible. We actually physically fought at one point. He got so under my skin that I just saw red and I wanted nothing more than to kill him." She couldn't deny that she had felt that old antagonism brewing several times in these past two months. The man still had a way of tapping just the right spots to infuriate her. "Oh, did I forget that I contemplated letting him fall over a ten foot drop once?"

Michonee scoffed as she envisioned the scenario. "You two clearly have some _deep_ rooted issues."

"Exactly!" Samara snapped keenly. "How do you get from hating each other to such intimacy in barely two months? This is not a movie or a romance novel. Shit like love born out of two people that barely have anything in common doesn't exist in the real world, and even when you try it, it fails spectacularly because you realize it that in the end there's nothing that connects you."

" _Love_?" Michonne practically choked on the word.

Samara waved it away nonchalantly. "Poor choice of words."

The Native didn't appreciate the dubious look.

"I _don't_ love him, Michonne." She deadpanned with no trace of humor present. "I'm not that romantic. Who do you take me for?"

"But do you _like_ him?"

Samara's head twitched as she scoffed. "Like him as what, a person? Can't really say he's among my favorite. As a partner? Trust is a fickle thing when it comes to him. Physically?" Samara sucked in a deep breath and she seemed almost pained to answer. "Very much so."

"Then what's the problem?" Michonne was of the impression that Samara would be more comfortable in a physical relationship than anything deeper. "Isn't that preferable to getting emotionally involved?"

The Native swallowed thickly as she nervously scratched at her bandaged hands. "I think if I let myself do that, the situation will slip out of my hands and I' m not prepared to see where it goes."

"We can't control all aspects of our lives, Samara. Some things just happen."

"Not to me." Her answer came out briskly and finite.

" _Especially_ to you." Michonne corrected pointedly. "You're so hardwired to be in control that you're actually the easiest to snap and manipulate." She should know…

Exasperated, Samara spat on the ground. "It's a _disease_ , that's what this is. I should've never followed my basic instincts. Think with your head, not your vagina."

"Loneliness."

Pause.

"What?"

"Loneliness brings people together. We're sociable creatures, Samara. It's in our DNA." Sooner or later, even the most reclusive of people reach out for the company of others. "For some it's emotional support, for others just to assimilate so not to be left on the outside and for some it's just about physical closeness. Unfortunately, sex doesn't resolve anything. It just keeps you away from the _real_ problem."

"And what's that, Dr. Love?" Samara mocked the woman's sagely words.

Michonne shrugged. "I don't know the troubles of your heart so I can't answer that."

Samara sighed, a small part of her hoped that Michonne had the answer and she wouldn't have to wrack her brain for one.

"Was it at least good?"

Samara pondered on the question. She couldn't say it had been spectacular, but it had etched itself a niche into her mind.

"It was… _strange_ , but in a good way." Samara tried to explain only words seemed to fail her. "Like a long-dead kindling had just been ignited," Something she hadn't experienced in _years_. An excitement she had only felt while flying in war zones—"But then I realized that the person who did that was _Daryl Dixon_ and I immediately felt so ashamed."

"Because he's a redneck?"

It was then that the dam broke and Samara's revulsion surfaced from somewhere deep inside. It was captivating to see the rapid change in mood within her and how it contorted her features.

"I feel like I pissed on every principle, every code I had before the virus. My carefully built emotional individuality just got deconstructed in a matter of a moment." Her nostrils flared as she burnt holes in the walls, her anger that palpable. "You ever heard of the phrase 'sleeping with the enemy'? That's how it felt."

Michonne stared at her dubiously. "Aren't you going a bit too far? That man has never struck me as a bad person."

"Which makes it all so much worse because he's _not."_ The woman almost whined as she punched the bag in frustration."Underneath that unfriendly exterior _,_ Daryl's the exact opposite of the assholes I've arrested in my life, but even knowing that…" She shook her head in despair.

The sword-wielder understood. What Samara was agonizing over was that she couldn't— _wouldn't_ —get over Daryl's appearance as a stereotypical redneck because then it meant that she subconsciously craved that and she wasn't prepared for admit something so life changing. It made the sword-wielder seriously question if Samara's hatred was so deeply rooted that she couldn't get out of it or if her stubbornness was so colossal that she couldn't give in, not even for an inch, because then it meant she had been _wrong_ and being humble was not something Samara was very good at being.

…For some reason, Michonne was inclined to think it was the later.

"He's nothing like John. I think that's why I went for him in the first place and not for someone like Grimes because they had nothing in common. Daryl's the antithesis of John."

"Is that good or bad?"

"I don't know…" With a sigh, she sat on the floor cross-legged, more exhausted than when she abused the bag. "I loved John, Michonne, I really did. We were happy for the few years we had. He was a perfect balance to my temper and his calm disposition managed to mellow me down from my wilder ways, but…" She swallowed thickly as her hands started shaking. "I'm beginning to wonder if that was what I really wanted or it was just something I had to do to integrate. You have to understand that I never wanted to get married, Michonne. I never felt the need to. I craved _excitement_ , not stability. John represented a normal life which is exactly what I _didn't_ want."

Everyone was built differently, Michonne thought. She always wanted a family and the thought of remaining single had always been a terror of hers. Still was.

"Then why settle down in the first place?"

Samara avoided the woman's probing gaze and twiddled her thumbs like a nervous schoolgirl. "Because it was time to grow up. I was in my thirties and I was consumed by guilt that after everything, I never once made my dad's wishes come true. I didn't give him the happy family he always wanted, but now everything is _gone_. There aren't any pretenses for me to hide behind. I don't have to get hitched nor do I have to make babies. This virus gave me a fresh start and I'm starting to be _myself_ and that terrifies me because I don't know this person anymore. I don't know how to proceed forward." Her fingers raked through her hair and stopped short as she lowered her face, away from prying eyes. "I'm lost…"

Admitting that had been one of the hardest things she'd ever done.

It only had dawned on her recently that it really didn't take her long to take up arms and kill still living and breathing humans. It didn't take long to accept a dog as her friend and it didn't take her long to sleep with someone that was the epitome of the type she detested before and after the virus. Before, she hadn't been extremely preoccupied with her behavior likening it to a Pandora's Box never to be opened, but now she couldn't keep using that excuse. She had arrived at a point where being vigilant 24/7 wasn't needed anymore. She had free time to do things, to ponder, to try and be normal and that scared her because she didn't know how to. Months of always being on her guard, surviving through the next day had emptied her of such luxuries.

And Daryl…

What the hell was she supposed to do with him?

"Samara…" Michonne crouched down to her level and spoke as confidently and as gently as possible. She'd never seen Samara so wrecked by her conscience that she was barely capable of deciding her actions. This hadn't been her intention. Michonne had just wanted Samara to relax a little, not go into a full-blown existential crisis. Perhaps Andrea had been right in the end…"You need to sort out your head because right now it sounds like the past you is fighting the new one and it's slowly tearing you apart. You can't keep carrying these contradictions around—one day you say one thing and the next you change your mind, so buck up and let the past _go_. If you don't, you're going to be stuck in this Limbo for a very long time. I know I was."

"It's not that easy for me." She wiped the accumulated tears from her lashes and sniffled.

"It never is, but you _have_ to. It's the only way to stay alive and not just physically speaking. Forget Daryl, forget me and forget the others—we don't factor in the equation. Concentrate on yourself and what you want."

What she wanted?

Right now that was to forget everything.

And she knew just how.

* * *

Daryl stalked the prison halls, a cloud of smoke trailing in his wake. He had finished his watch duty just recently and had time to spare until the urge to sleep overcame him.

He was somewhere in Cell Block B, away from prying eyes. He had no desire to be around anyone right now as his mind still wouldn't give him respite. Either it was the act itself or just Samara that kept circling around inside his mind in a vicious cycle.

Daryl seriously pondered on speaking with the woman. He selfishly wanted to believe she was in the same position as he so that he wasn't alone.

A clang resounded throughout the empty hall, making Daryl freeze in place like a rabbit. A darkened form stumbled around the corner and for a second the hunter thought it was a walker, but he had never heard a corpse curse so foully. His guard went from vigilant to downright agonizing as he realized who the intruder was.

Samara didn't seem to notice him as she drank from a bottle while barely able to walk straight.

"What the hell are you doin'?" His voice rose with the vexation he felt.

The woman paused as she finally spotted him and beamed drunkenly. "Yo, Dixon. What up?"

"…Shit, you're really drunk."

The woman giggled as she saluted him and continued in her debauchery. Something about this image struck a cord inside the man. Maybe it was because it reminded him of her drunken escapade at the farm and the trouble it caused or perhaps it was seeing her in such a state. Whichever, he hated it.

He tried to snatch the bottle out of her hand only for her to swiftly move it out of the way, making her stumble lightly.

"Fuck you, it's mine!" She clutched it to her chest possessively. "I found it!"

"Give it to me."

"Pssht!" She scoffed. "Hell no! Go find your own."

His eye twitched. He needed to get that bottle away from her right now.

"Can you at least share it?" He tried a different tactic. Daryl could easily overpower her in her state, but he'd rather not resort to that yet. "I ain't got any left and it would be nice to feel it again."

It seemed that his strained dulcet tone must have done something right because Samara gingerly handed him the bottle. He was just glad he wouldn't have to fight her for it as he walked away with the intoxicating liquid.

"Hey!" She called after him. "Where are you going?"

"Throw this down a toilet."

"What?! No!"

Daryl heard her run and before he knew it, she was upon his back, fighting tooth and nail for the bottle. The hunter was so surprised at her abrupt action that he almost lost the bottle to her grubby fingers. Snapping out of his daze, he began to wrestle the woman. Both pulled and pushed with Samara even pulling at his hair and ears to make him drop her treasure. The urge to slam the woman against the wall was tempting, but he knew that if he acted on it he'd mess up her back.

Daryl's eyes widened suddenly and he almost choked in shock.

The crafty Native found a way to distract him entirely as her hand reached for his ass and squeezed. In surprise, the hunter spilled the majority of the liquid on him as it fell to the floor.

"Goddammit!" Daryl bellowed as he stared at his soaked lower half. "Look what you did!"

Samara quit in her struggle and laughed at his damp pants.

"Oh Gods, you look like you pissed yourself!" She continued laughing hysterically as she stumbled off his back and into the wall behind her.

Daryl vehemently glared at her as he felt his cheeks heat up in embarrassment and anger. He was far from amused.

Suddenly, the Native stopped in her mirth and her intense gaze pinned him in place.

"Maybe I should help you with that." Her voice was low and husky, raising the fine hairs at the back of his neck.

"What are—"

He sucked in a curt breath. One minute her hand was at her side and in the next it was deep inside his pants, grabbing him without shame.

She crashed into him, sending them both into the wall and sloppily kissed him. At first, Daryl hesitated and tried to pry her off him, but when her tongue coiled around his own and actually purred was when all inhibitions flew out of the window. Any reservation he might have shattered into a thousand pieces as he kissed her back, waking a dormant beast inside him.

Samara groaned once his hands grabbed at her behind, lifting her into him. The taste of alcohol seemed to act as an aphrodisiac, reminding them both of their liaison a week ago and the fact that they were kissing and groping each other in the open where anyone could just walk by and catch them, made everything even more alluring.

The back of Daryl's head hit the wall once the hand attached to him decided to move. He hissed as her hold alternated between almost painful and sensual.

A rush of power seized Samara as she watched him flinch and pant at her ministrations. He was like silly putty in her hands…

Biting her lips tantalizingly, the Native wanted to see more.

Slowly, she slid down his body, pulling her hand out his pants as she went. Feeling the loss, Daryl realized that she was crouching before him, parallel with his groin. His ears burned as he understood where this was heading towards.

"I thought we had a deal." He said gruffly as her hand was busy with unbuckling his belt and opening his fly.

"I'm revoking it for tonight." She slurred oddly appealingly as she nipped at his lower abdominal muscles making him shudder. "I'm actually drunk enough to do this again."

Pause.

Daryl blinked through the haze as the words caught up to his sex-fogged brain.

 _What?_

Abruptly, Samara's tongue path was cut off by Daryl's grip on her upper arms.

"What did you say?" He whispered expressionlessly as he leaned closer to her.

There was something dangerous brewing deep inside him and for all that was holy, he hoped he had heard wrong.

"Oh, come on." She grinned, unaware of the incoming tempest. "This is a pretty ordinary thing, nothing to be—"

"What, that I need to get a woman drunk to even consider fuckin' me?" His grip became merciless causing the Native to squirm achingly.

Samara blinked rapidly as the alcohol mist slowly dispersed. _Wait,_ _what?_

Daryl was speechless. He couldn't believe what he had just heard. Samara had always been someone who didn't pull her punches, but she went too far this time.

—This was humiliation at its finest.

"Do you really think you're any better to look at than me?" He hissed in her face, loathing pouring out of his eyes and making the woman shrink in his grip. "You look like someone that's been used as a knife and gun practice. You ain't soft, you're built like a goddamn tank! You're tits ain't big enough and you're ass ain't that perky no more." Samara's features contorted into horror and mortification with each verbal strike. _Good._ "You ain't goddamn Venus so don't get so conceited! And let me tell you this, sweetheart, you're face is pretty much the only thing goin' for you, but even that gets ruined when you open your filthy mou—"

Slap!

Samara breathed harshly as she glared at the man. There was hellfire in those green irises of hers matching the boiling rage inside the man as he stared daggers with his cheek growing red.

"I might be all those things, but I am the _only_ person that's _willing_ to fuck you." This time, her words were as razor-sharp, rage dominating her intoxicated brain. "So why don't you take advantage of my generosity?"

"Your generosity?!" Daryl almost howled in disbelief. Could she get anymore conceited?

With a harsh shove, he pushed her off him and Samara fell to the floor with a grunt.

"What the hell was I thinkin' sleepin' with you?" Daryl fixed his zipper and belt back into their respectful place. "I should've just turned the other way instead of thinkin' that somethin' could happen between us. I knew that sooner or later that cunt side of you will come out, but I didn't listen. I thought that maybe you'd change for the better, but you can't, can you? That'll just make you human."

Samara watched as the man all but stomped away. Even in her drunken state, it dawned on her just what exactly had happened. Any bridge that had been built between them has been burned to cinders with just a few heated words thrown out in anger.

The Native groaned as she leaned against the cool wall, balling her hands into tight fists. She felt like punching herself for her stupidity.

"Fuck…"

* * *

 _ **Foot Note:**_ Hehehe, I live for these moments. U mad, bro?


	19. Deaf, Blind and Stubborn

"Ugh…"

Her vision came up blurry with a lazy spin to it. Samara felt her throat dry and tongue swollen with this rancid taste in her mouth.

 _Where the hell am I?_

Looking around, all she could see was grey concrete. Samara realized that she had spent the night in a hallway with an empty bottle of alcohol just a short distance away. Ah, so that explained the lack of feeling in her mouth and the tangy taste. She'd gotten drunk.

It came to her now. She'd had a mild breakdown in the gym and sought refuge from her overheated mind in the deep end of a bottle. It had worked from what she could tell. She felt much better, free of the depressing thoughts even if in the process she got a raging headache.

Samara wasn't fooled, though. This good disposition was just a mask. The real problems were still there at the back of her mind, waiting for the opportunity to remind her of them.

As she tried to move, the Native winced as she realized she had slept with her posture crooked against the wall resulting in her neck and back bent awkwardly.

 _Gods, I feel like an old woman._

Craning her neck to relive her stiff muscles, Samara shuddered as a wave of nausea assaulted her poor, abused stomach. Coffee and raw eggs were in dire need.

The journey up her feet proved much more complicated than she had imagined. She hadn't gotten drunk in a very long time (that _night didn't count_ ) and it hit her like a train. Between the struggling, grunting and whimpering she managed to stand on shaky legs.

This is the worst, she thought as leaned against the wall so not to undo all the hard work. The hallway spun as she tried to control her bubbling queasiness from shooting up her throat and onto the floor. Even the task of walking felt like a chore more than a natural reflex.

How did she end up here? This was not their living quarters. She vaguely recalled finding herself outside and in search for a hiding place to splurge without interruption. It seemed that to her intoxicated mind Cell Block B proved to be the obvious choice. From there it was a blur of badly tuned singing and stumbling and—

Samara paused in her walk. There was something she was forgetting. She groaned as she strained her aching brain for the answer and vaguely saw a shape in her mind's eye. Who was tha—

 _Oh._

" _What the hell are you doing'?"_

Daryl. He had been here…with her.

Samara swallowed thickly. With the remembrance of his presence came a sense of grim apprehension in the pit of her being as she tried to recall their interaction. There had been something about the alcohol, an argument maybe? Did they fight again?

Massaging her forehead, she tried to peer further into the fog. Flashes of struggle and…ass grabbing…resulted in spilled alcohol and—

Her eyes widened as heat crawled up her throat. She went down on him!

Samara's cheeks puffed as the contents of her stomach threatened to evacuate. What was worse was the sudden warming of her body that broke her out into a sickly-sweet sweat.

 _Oh no. No, no, no!_

That can't be right. She didn't remember an activity like _that_! Concentrating further, Samara tried to decipher her cryptic memories. What happened? What happened?

She _did_ try to initiate a sexual encounter with him and Daryl had been all too eager to comply, but then something was spoken. Something that ended with her…slapping Daryl?

 _Why would she—_

 _Oh._

The memory abruptly tumbled and revealed itself in all its glory. Samara cringed in horror as a careless few words brought about the hunter's wrath and her own in retaliation to his exploding temper.

 _Goddammit._

She needed to talk to him. To sort out this misunderstanding. She hadn't meant the way he had taken her words.

As she took a first step into the light of the morning sun, Samara croaked.

 _Ugh._

But first, puking time.

* * *

Samara tip-toed into his cell after making sure no one was in the vicinity. It had taken more than an hour for her to be able to even stand up properly. After emptying her stomach's contents and drinking several cups of black coffee, Samara ventured into the lion's den, more confident than she had been upon waking up. They had to clear the air between them otherwise Samara knew she would end up regretting it.

The man in question sat on his bed making hand-crafted arrows for his dwindling supply.

"Daryl?"

For a moment, the hunter paused with the knife gleaming menacingly before continuing unperturbed. He didn't even raise his head.

"We need to talk."

"Get out."

Expecting the cold shoulder, Samara wasn't deterred. "Look, what happened last night—"

The swish of his knife was audible. "Don't wanna hear it. Get out of my cell."

"No." She said sternly as she boldly snatched the arrow out of his hands. "Look at me, dammit!"

—In hindsight, tugging on an already stretched to the breaking point cord hadn't exactly been a good idea considering they tended to snap fairly easy.

Like a snake poised to strike, Daryl rushed her with speed she hadn't expected, grabbed her by the upper arms and slammed her against the hard wall. Samara hissed as lightning cracked against her back like a smith against his forge, but the pain paled in comparison to the sheer, pure loathing that was staring her right in the face.

"I'm gonna say it one last time. Get. Out!" His breath came out harsh against her skin and Samara felt like melting into the wall just to get away from the suffocating tension.

"I think you need to calm down." His intensity was too much for her hungover self.

He punched the wall right beside her head making her minutely flinch. "Don't fuckin' tell me what to do!"

Samara licked her dry lips. She needed to handle this was literally seconds away from blowing his fuse and she had no wish to start another brawl. She swore, this was like facing off a pissed off bull with her as the glaringly red target. It gave her a stomach an uncomfortable churn since this situation reminded her of when he had had her in the same position back at the abandoned farmhouse. Even the tension between them was identical.

"I wasn't trying to do that, I just want you to take a step back." She spoke soothingly, hoping to quiet his agitation. "We're a bit cramped, don't you agree?"

That was an understatement. He was practically caging her in with barely enough space to breathe. Not too long ago, this would have brought on a degree of excitement, but under current circumstances it made it agonizingly discomforting. His anger practically scorched her skin and Samara woe the fact that she hadn't come armed.

But to Samara's grateful relief, Daryl took a step back, alleviating the distress.

"Get the hell out and don't come back here again." The arctic frost in his eyes could cut through diamonds. "We ain't got nothin' to talk about."

"Yes, we do." She insisted. "I was _drunk_. You can't take what I said to heart while I wasn't even aware of myself."

"No, you knew _exactly_ what you were sayin'. You haven't changed one lick. You think just because I don't look and speak like some colleague graduate I'm some disgustin' redneck born in the woods that needs women to be really _desperate_ to fuck him." His eyes narrowed further into slits. "That about right?"

"What? No!" Samara's eyes widened incredulously. That had been the farthest from her mind. "You took my words the wrong way!"

"Bullshit." He scoffed.

There was a growing frustration inside her that demanded to be released. "Listen, you stubborn ass, if I wanted to insult you I would have chosen something much more degrading. Do you really think I'd go through all the trouble of _showing_ myself to you just so I can humiliate you after? That doesn't make sense!"

"I'm sure in that fucked up mind of yours it does."

Samara wanted to scream. Why wasn't he listening? It was like he had shut off the part that came to reason when it concerned her.

"Listen to me, _please_. What I wanted to say last night was that we were—"

"I don't fuckin' care!" He exploded, the fuse having reached its end. He had enough of hearing her lies. "What part of I don't wanna hear your excuses don't you understand? Do I gotta speak in smoke signals for you to get it?" He pushed her away, making Samara stumble backwards. "Get the fuck out of my cell, you loopy squaw!"

Samara stared in shock. It's been some time since anyone had screamed at her in such a way or treated her with such disdain and it wasn't a pretty feeling. Her features drained themselves until there was nothing left but an expressionless puppet.

Pushing away from the wall, the woman made a hasty exit. Right now, there was no chance to make him change his mind considering how fired up he was. It would be like trying to negotiate with a volcano. Nevertheless, the apprehension of how little he trusted her was jarring and the fact that he wouldn't even hear her explain herself probably shocked her more than anything. Daryl could be stubborn when he wanted to be, but he had never been unreasonable.

Somehow, it actually upset her to know that even after everything, they were still no more than strangers.

 _Is this how it will always be between us?_

Samara stopped dead in her tracks once outside his cell. To her utter dread, Carol was on the ground floor, staring nervously at her. She was carrying a laundry basket filled with clothes most likely on her way to her chores.

An imaginary cold drop trailed down Samara's spine. _Did she hear?_

No doubt she must have heard Daryl's shouts and investigated. What she hadn't expected was for Samara to practically run out of his cell with a ghastly expression on her face—not quite anger and not quite shock, but a mixture of the two with a dash of desperation.

Taking a deep breath and schooling her expression, Samara descended the stairs and passed by the woman as apathetic as ever.

"What the fuck are you looking at?"

Samara had wanted to scare the woman away, but her voice came out far too shaky to be taken seriously and she mentally berated herself for it. Her confrontation with Daryl had left her more off balanced that she would have liked.

Gritting her teeth, Samara marched straight out of the block, unaware of the older woman's concerned gaze following her before travelling to the hunter's cell entrance.

Time was needed, Samara thought. Time for the hunter to cool down and listen to reason. He had to hear her out sooner or later. They practically lived a few feet away, he couldn't avoid her indefinitely.

 _Right?_

* * *

Samara opened the cupboard and tsked at its emptiness.

She and a select few were scavenging a town named Bowdon in the eastern part of Georgia. Bowdon wasn't anything special, just another small rural community, but it was one they hadn't visited before.

It had been a week since that disgraceful venture with the hunter and the subsequent morning after and still the man wouldn't hear her out. She had attempted time and time again to drill some sense into him, each time leaving her more frustrated than before. At one point, the hunter had gotten fed up with her attempts and resorted to avoiding her at every opportunity which was just what she had feared.

Samara was truly at the end of the rope. She hadn't meant to insult or belittle him since they _did,_ in fact, have to get tipsy to have sex. Samara had simply and nonchalantly alluded to that time. Hell, she's had her share of drunken sex before and she'd never been ashamed of it…well, perhaps only when she discovered that her partner was less desirable than she had drunkenly thought, but this hadn't been the case with Daryl. Unfortunately, the man stubbornly refused to listen as if fearing that she'll just spit poison instead.

Why was the hunter always adamant in thinking the worse of her? Back when she had been self-medicating, he'd criticized her use without first knowing the reason. When she had kissed him, his first thought was that she had done it for laughs and now _this_. Every time she made a decision that wasn't in her usual repertoire he immediately jumped to the worse conclusion. Almost like he couldn't accept that her emotional range went past just antagonism because that meant that she was not the harpy he liked to believe.

Was that what he wanted? For her to be cruel and nasty like she had been at the farm? She could hardly believe he liked that woman. No, she _knew_ that he had detested her back then. So what, then?

Something in Samara's gut told her that his irrational response had a far older meaning attached to it. Her words must have hit a deep wound for him to react so strongly. Perhaps the man expected the worst out of people and once he made the difficult decision to trust, the first wrongdoing sent him over the edge like a firework. Almost as if eager to be disappointed and then hating himself for trusting in the first place.

—That sort of mindset didn't just develop overnight. It takes years of nurturing over let-downs. If that was what he suffered from, Samara had little to no chance of changing his state of mind. You can't fix a broken record, after all.

Samara scoffed self-deprecatingly. Really now, what did she expect? That they would become best friends after having sex? At best, they would return to normal, at worst back to square one. In the end, there was no happy ending when it concerned the both of them.

"Find anythin'?"

Samara peeked over her shoulder as Oscar entered the kitchen.

"No. You?"

"Medicine and some toiletries."

The Native looked inside his backpack and whistled at his find. The drugs weren't the cheap kind, but the ones only found in hospitals. How they had ended up in a suburban house Samara didn't know, but she was glad for it. Briefly, Samara wished she had found these weeks ago when she was still popping. These would have helped.

"Nice." She zipped up the bag as she walked towards the exit of the house. "Let's hope the others found edible food."

Outside, Samara was greeted with sunshine and birds chirping. Despite the deserted town, she found it oddly peaceful.

"Walker on your left."

Samara followed Oscar's instruction to a walker shuffling actively towards them. Without a hitch in her step, Samara took a hold of her bow and casually launched an arrow into the walker's skull.

"Nice shot."

It was since it hit the walking corpse right in the middle of its forehead. Samara was getting better with each shot and soon, she'll be manipulating this bow with the ease of an Olympic pro.

Samara's mood dampened as the thought of bows and arrows immediately made her think of Daryl. At least something good came out of their short-lived amity, she thought broodingly as she gazed at the compound bow.

Axel and the hunter himself were still inside their respective houses, browsing. They still had hours until sunset and there were still a lot of buildings to pillage.

"Gotta say," Oscar started as he overlooked the deserted main road with cars and dead bodies strewn across morosely. "I never once thought I would _ever_ say that stayin' in jail is better than bein' on the outside."

However dismal the view in front of them was, it couldn't get a rise out of the marshal anymore. Samara was used to the gloom and emptiness the world now provided. It was nothing short of a non-stop funeral service.

"I can see a bar." Oscar pointed out a small dingy pub that had seen better days.

"Except for alcohol there probably isn't much left."

"Doesn't mean we shouldn't check it out." Oscar all too readily jogged towards it. "What's better than free booze?"

Samara rolled her eyes, but conceded. Who knew, there might be some peanuts there they could eat.

As they entered the establishment, they were immediately assaulted by a rotten stench that had them shielding their nose. Something had died inside recently.

"Damn, that's nasty."

The Native nodded as they pushed through the sickly stench and began clearing the building of any stragglers. There had been just one on the apartment above the bar gorging itself on the half-eaten carcass of a woman.

Disgusting, Samara grimaced as she retrieved her arrow from the corpse. With a deep sigh, the Native plopped on the bed, absentmindedly wiping the grime off the arrow's tip.

She had been the first to volunteer for this run, hoping to converse with the hunter alone, but now she regretted it as the man had been adamant in ignoring her at every opportunity. She vividly remembered his outward distaste once she voiced her decision to join.

And it wasn't just her that noticed. Since the group practically lived, breathed, ate and worked together on a daily basis in such a constrained environment, picking up a splinter in their dynamics hadn't been difficult. After just two days of their argument, people had begun throwing them veiled glances. They were on edge as they could sense the tension in the air. The group hadn't had dissidence until now, and it was unwelcome in their relatively peaceful lives. Rick had tried to dig up the reason for this furious stalemate, but both trackers had remained mute. Beside the fact that it was embarrassingly personal, it would also shed light on their secret rendezvous which both had sworn to secrecy. Neither wanted the man to know of their interlude, all for different reasons.

There was no motive for her to be here. It was painstakingly obvious that there was no chance of reconciliation in the near future and Samara was fed up on trying. It was taking too much of her time and emotional stability, and she was starting to feel drained. It was time to return back to more realistic matters that had nothing to do with the heart.

Samara cringed as the mere thought of putting everything behind had her life organ unpleasantly skip a beat. Every time she thought of letting go of the hunter, she felt this slow, steadfast panic bubble up and create a stifling pressure in her chest. Samara didn't like letting things half-finished and just leaving this mess to fester was not acceptable in her book.

…Besides, she _detested_ this view Daryl had. It bothered Samara that he couldn't see anything good in her. She was not a monster, goddammit!

Samara rose from the bed and walked over to the window, staring absentmindedly past the fire escape into nothing.

Was she sad? _Maybe…_

She might not have liked Daryl all that much, but she could have learned how to as a friend. Those few instances where they had managed to get along had felt pleasant in the most unusual way. To arrive to an understanding after disliking each other for months had been a breath fresh of air and Samara had been more than ready to explore it further. If they could work with each other without the anger and contempt, the Native had been all for it. One more ally never hurt, but that dream was over now…

 _Huh?_

From the corner of her eye she saw movement in the building on the other side of the road. One of the other members of the group, Axel, was waving excitedly her way.

 _What is he doing?_

Crash! Shatter!

Immediately, any thought on Axel's behavior dissipated and replaced with a one-track vigilant mindset. Samara dashed across the apartment and down the stairs to where the sound came from. If it hadn't been Oscar, it had been something else entirely. She entered the bar with gun raised, expecting walkers to ambush her but found only the convict standing awkwardly beside a pile of shattered glass and broken rafters while holding a dusty, untouched bottle.

The marshal's expression said it all. _Really?_

"My bad." The man shrugged sheepishly.

"For a bottle of alcohol you had to bring the whole bar down?"

"Not any bottle." He stared reverently at the object in his hand. "A twelve year old brandy."

Samara rolled her eyes in exasperation. _Only men are crazy enough to risk their neck's over a bit of alcohol._

"Come on, let's go. There's nothing useful here."

Heading towards the door, Samara heard the man follow as the liquid swirled around in the bottle. Opening the door, the Native literally felt her stomach plummet through her ass.

—A dozen moaning walkers greeted her just a foot away.

By a thread, Samara avoided Death's hands and slammed the door shut only for a decrypt arm to cut her off. She pushed against the door along with the brute force that was Oscar all the while avoiding the fluttering arm as it made a frenzied grab for her.

Samara unsheathed her machete and with a clean swipe, cut the rotted appendage and finally managed to close the door entirely. A bead of sweat poured down her throat and into her jacket's collar as her chest heaved.

 _So this is why Axel was so frantic._

Her eyes connected with Oscar's own terrified ones. "I don't think we can leave through there."

"No shit." The man grimaced as the walkers began pounding against the door. "We need to get out of here."

There was no time to think on the how's and why's, their only goal now was to leave this building intact.

"There's a fire escape in the apartment above us. On three we run."

Oscar nodded and took a deep breath as the counting began.

"One."

Samara licked her dry lips as the door began to splinter.

"Two."

Oscar mentally prepared himself just as the windows facing the street cracked.

"Three! Go!"

The moment they stepped away from the door it burst open with the dead toppling inside. The windows shattered like firecrackers, showering them with glass. Both ran with their hearts in their throat, ignoring the paper cuts from the glass scratching their skin and utterly aware of the ghastly sounds of the undead gnawing and snapping their maws at them. Their groans and hisses resounded clearly in their ears as they ran up the stairs, never once looking back. They might just lose courage if they saw their actual number.

Samara was the last to enter the apartment and Oscar immediately shut the door, locking it.

"This door won't hold for long." Samara said as she inspected the shoddy workmanship. If they stepped even a foot away, it would collapse.

"I'll hold it!" Oscar shouted. "You go first!"

The woman ran just as Oscar shouldered the full burden, grimacing at walkers reached their level and began pushing against the door.

Samara reached the window and opened it with a bang. The view beyond faced the side alley of the bar and thankfully it was clean save for a few walkers at the end that could be easily dispatched. It seemed the entire bulk of undead was concentrated in the front.

Just as Samara was halfway out the window she heard an ominous crack. With sweat pouring down her brow, she realized that the door had broken inwards with an ashen grey hand slithering in, uncaring of the fact that skin was stripped from its bone as it scraped against the splinters. Its only goal was to reach Oscar's warm and juicy flesh.

The man yelled as the hand brushed against his face.

Time seemed to dilute as Samara's brain furiously worked. She knew, deep inside, that Oscar had no way of reaching the window anymore. Time had run out for him as she heard another splinter in the door as another hand tried to claw inside. The only way Oscar had a chance was if she sacrificed her own escape.

As Samara's eyes connected with the man's, he seemed to come at the same conclusion as horror broke out. With morbid curiosity, Samara watched as an unnatural acceptance settled over him, draining him of any expression. This was his last stand and he reluctantly accepted it. If it meant saving one person then he'll go down content that his life ended with grace and courage instead of how he had lived it.

"Go!" He shouted resolutely. "I'll hold them off!"

And in that one instant, Samara felt her survival instincts pull her towards the fire escape. Run, flee, save yourself—it whispered greedily. Let the man have his moment of heroism. Don't be stupid and go down with him.

Samara's teeth gritted.

 _Fuck heroics!_

She was not about to have _anyone_ sacrifice themselves for her!

With resolute determination, Samara slipped back inside and frantically searched for anything sturdy to give them even a minute's head start. She could hear Oscar's furious shouting but ignored it in favor of a large wardrobe. With adrenaline propelling her forward, she pushed on the sturdy piece as fast and hard as possible because in that moment she heard the door break further.

"Get out of the way!" Samara bellowed as she crashed the wardrobe against the door, avoiding squishing Oscar by a hair.

"Go!"

Both ran as they climbed over the window and dropped onto the fire escape, leaving behind the loud crash of the wardrobe as it fell over and the onslaught of walkers that shuffled inside. The rusty metal shrieked as they ran down a story with Oscar kicking on the extended ladder. Rapidly it descended, ending in a loud bang.

 _Fuck! That probably attracted more attention!_

Groan.

…Sometimes, Samara really hated it when she was right.

The walkers that had been at the end of the alley now had them in their sights. With renewed enthusiasm, they headed towards them their arms clawing the air. Oscar was the first to hit the pavement and with his handgun began shooting the fast approaching walkers.

The marshal hit the ground and tugged on his jacket so they could leave. They ran down the narrow alleyway, putting as much distance between them and their corpsey pursuers.

In the distance, they could hear the familiar pops of gunshots. _The others…_

"We have to get to the car!" Samara shouted as they rounded up on the back of the building. There was nothing but a fence and empty space beyond.

"What about the others?"

"We can't worry about them now!" She jumped over an upturned trashcan. "We need to save our own asses first!"

The car they had driven over here was at the edge of the town near several other cars they had siphoned for fuel. Hopefully, the others thought the same as her and left for it. Samara's only hope was that they hadn't been forced to leave without them or vice versa.

As the duo reached the main street, they were greeted with more walkers seemingly appearing from behind every corner, every car, every building. It was hoard, Samara realized grimly. They must have been aimlessly marching in this direction when they heard the crash inside the bar.

Speeding up, Samara and Oscar shot any walker that got too close.

"I can see it!"

The Jeep was right ahead, sitting beside the abandoned cars. The others were already there, shooting away at walkers that dared approach. They urgently waved the duo as they were more than ready to leave. The undead was starting to form a circle around them.

Reaching their side, Samara didn't even have time to catch her breath as she continued shooting walkers. Axel slipped behind the wheel while Oscar launched himself in the back, leaving Daryl and Samara to hold the line until Axel started the engine.

With the awakening of the car, both shooters entered, shutting the doors behind them loudly just as walkers began to bang against the vehicle.

"Axel, drive already!" Daryl hissed as he watched a walker try to breach his side window with its chipped teeth.

The man put the car in reverse, but ended up hitting walkers. Everywhere they looked, they could only see rotten flesh and hungry eyes.

"There's too many! I can't find a clear way!"

"Then just mow 'em down!" Oscar shouted in frustration as the car began shaking violently.

"You do that and the car'll get stuck!" The hunter retorted.

During this time, Samara had peered through all the windows in search for a solution to their problem. Daryl was right, if they attempted to go over them, they would just end up stuck. Their only option was to distract the walkers and steer them away from the car. Unfortunately, that meant only one thing.

—They needed bait.

Death was not an acceptable solution in Samara's book. This had to be done without someone dying.

Her thoughts processed several different scenarios, but all resulted in untimely death. Samara was beginning to lose hope when her eyes landed on the other cars around them.

 _Ah._

The cars.

They weren't too far away for someone to attempt to jump them. Two of them were even close enough to each other to simply walk over the hood and roof and reach the other side which was walker free.

"Fuck it." Samara shifted from her seat and forced open the sunroof, catching the attention of all the occupants.

"What are you doin'?" Oscar looked on horrified as she pushed her arms out.

"I'll distract them while you drive away."

Samara would have succeeded in climbing halfway out if it hadn't been for the hand on her shoulder viciously pulling her back inside.

A snarling hunter greeted her. "Are you insane?!"

 _I wish…_

"Look, we either wait here until the walkers get in or one of us has to bite the bullet." Samara grabbed his hand to pry it off her. "Don't worry, I'll get back to the prison on my own."

His grip tightened to a painful hold. "Hell no!"

Samara felt time slip from between her fingers as Daryl delayed her departure. With no trace of guilt, and probably a little joy, she unholstered her gun by the barrel and socked him over the face with the handle's end. The impact jarred him enough to fall back in his seat, providing the woman enough time to slip out of the car.

"Marshal!" She heard Axel's dismayed cry, but ignored it in favor of concentrating on her task.

Atop the roof, all milky eyes diverted towards the marshal and made a grab for her. Nimbly, the woman avoided their grip by shooting a few and propelled herself to the adjunct car. She landing on its roof, careful that she didn't slide off when she felt a hand grab the back of her boot. The Native swiftly shot it away and the walker in the forehead. Then another made a grab at her pants and she ruthlessly kicked the walker in the face.

Not giving the walkers any more time to gang her, Samara ran over the windshield and hood and hopped over to the next car, climbing its roof. She could hear the walkers march after her as she jumped off the car, the impact lightly jarring her ankles. Turning around she shot several rounds in the closest walkers, hoping that the guns loud bangs would attract enough of them to create a clear path for the car.

In full sprint she ran into the alleys between buildings. There was that uncomfortable pang in her spine, but it was a mere pest in comparison to her current situation. As she turned the corner to leave the street behind, she heard the car's engine rumble and speed off. Despite her dangerous situation, Samara felt relief that they had gotten away. Nothing good would have come out of them remaining.

Moreover, Samara had no intention of dying today. She was faster, smarter and had been in worse situations than this one. This actually reminded her of that time in Bowdon with the two women when they had riled up an entire town by accident. They had to jump from rooftop to rooftop to escape the city's ravenous inhabitants.

As she twisted and turned through the back alleys, she finally reached the main street and crossed it while avoiding small groups of walkers. She was down to two loaded guns and one spare cartridge.

 _Enough to get out of town._

As she rounded up back at the bar, she ran its now clear alley and ended up on the other side with only a few bullets spent on two stragglers. Beyond the bar was only a fence separating concrete civilization from grassy fields and, in the distance, scattered batches of forests. With a huff, she climbed the wooden fence and ended up on the other side.

Right now, the woodlands were her only option. If she could stumble upon just one walker far enough from the others and hide her scent with its own putrid one then she would be able to lose them completely.

The wooden fence proved no obstacle to the walkers as their combined effort broke through it. Hearing the undead consistently shamble on her trail made Samara even more resolute in her escape.

Good thing that she had increased her endurance with all those morning jogs seeing as it would be a while until she got even the smallest of breaks.

* * *

 _ **Foot Note:**_ Before you throw a fit, I realize the action may be a bit over the top here at the end and short (vague maybe?). *Sigh*. I _really_ hate writing action scenes.


	20. Sweet Home Alabama

Samara fell to the ground on her knees, panting like a dog in summer with a cascade of sweat pouring down her skin. She had been consistently moving for the past couple of hours and was at the end of her rope. Altering between jogging, walking and sprinting was absolutely exhausting. Not even fitness programs were able to reach the energy she depleted from running for her life.

There goes two pounds, she sarcastically snickered.

With shaky fingers Samara took a much needed drink of water from her backpack before quickly glancing at her wristwatch. She had three hours or so until sunset and was in no condition to move on. She needed to find a place to rest her tired body until morning. With a grimace, she took out her pocket compass and tried to pinpoint her position. She had ran west in almost a straight line so she was probably somewhere near the state border. Samara needed to head a little bit south east, avoid Bowden entirely, and from there straight towards the prison. Searching for a car was out of the question. She'd make more progress on foot than wasting time finding a working vehicle with gas in it. What she _did_ need was a map. That was first priority come tomorrow.

Inventory: compass, two bottles of water, gum, two powerbars and a bag of beef jerky. Enough to get her to the prison and if not, she could always hunt a critter or two.

As her breath shakily returned to normal, the last moments of her escape from Bowdon came crashing over her.

 _Holy shit…_

Samara's jaw dropped in shock as she stood in the middle of the forest, wide-eyed. Did she really just avoided Death by a margin? A hearty chuckle rumbled in the back of her throat before it turned into a full blown laugh. She had jumped into a hoard of walkers like some undead-raider Lara Croft.

 _Gods, I haven't felt that kind of adrenaline in months! I feel invincible!_

But as the frenzy came, it dwindled to an ember as reality once again kicked in. Samara lowered her head between her knees and tried to thwart the sudden panic that swept over her.

You jumped over a hoard of walkers! Are you insane?—this is what the self-preservation side of her screamed bloody. Instead of leaving Oscar behind, she jumped back into the fray and risked her life. Then, not even fifteen minutes later, she jeopardized her life by acting as bait so _others_ could get away and not her.

 _You really lost your mind, didn't you, girl?_

Samara sighed loudly. It hadn't been an impulsive act, but one born out of common sense and practicality. Either she or the hunter could have played the role since both were capable of surviving on their own. The only difference was she had thought of it first. Unfortunately, it still didn't quiet that frustrated voice in her head that desperately tried to reach her.

Samara shut it down ruthlessly. She had no time to think of 'what if's'. The deed had been done and she got out unscathed while the others lived to tell the tale. It was a victory in her book.

Time to move on.

Rising to her rickety feet, Samara checked her surroundings before moving on at a leisure pace, following the compass south-east. She might as well make a few more miles until the day ended before she found a tree to sleep in.

An hour passed and the Native's legs weighted down with each step. Her body was exhausted and, at this point, she was just pushing it. Samara stopped for a small break to catch her breath and eat a powerbar. As she munched on the strawberry sweet cereal bar she heard a faint snap of twigs. Like a rabbit in the headlights, she vigilantly listened to the echoes of the forest.

Rustle.

Quick as a bolt, Samara ducked behind a tree with her bow and arrow prepared. Something was moving in the distance and she could faintly hear it crashing through the foliage. It wasn't a walker or an animal, she realized with a bead of sweat rolling down the side of her temple. It was too quick and something about its movements was too refined. It was human as it seemed to be running straight towards her.

Aiming from behind the tree, Samara coolly waited to properly welcome the stalker. Her eyes detected a shape as it moved swiftly between trees and the tip of her arrow followed it faithfully.

Thwack!

"Shit!"

Samara paused as her heart did a small summersault. Stepping from behind cover, she sprinted towards the man, hoping that her aim hadn't been true. Reaching the location where she saw his shape, she found her arrow was imbedded in a tree with Daryl lowly crouched behind it. His eyes were wider than usual, no doubt almost being gored staggering him to an extent.

"What are you doing here?" Samara's shoulders sagged in relief. _He's alive…_

With a grunt, Daryl stood up and vehemently pulled the arrow out. His glare was scorching enough that Samara was surprised the arrow didn't catch on fire.

"The hell did you shoot at me for?" He hissed as his heart refused to stop beating so wildly. The last thing he had expected was to almost be killed with, ironically, an arrow.

"I didn't know it was you." Samara frowned indignant. How could she?

Daryl snorted, not entirely convinced, as he shoved the arrow back into her hands.

"How did you even find me?" Samara asked amazed as she placed the arrow back into the quiver. There was bound to have been dozens of tracks that he had to push through to find hers and even that would be by luck since he had no idea what the imprint on the sole of her boot was.

"Not easily." He heaved as he finally bended over himself and breathed deeply. "Christ, you got a light step."

"Yeah, it's in case people try to follow me." _Really, this man was something else entirely…_ To be able to find her against all odds was worthy of admiration and equally disturbing.

—Did this mean that no matter what he'll always find his way to her?

She shuddered. She really hoped not for both their sake's.

Now that her astonishment subsided,her eyes roamed around her surroundings for any other that might be accompanying the man, but there were none. Her attention returned to him with a visible sheen of annoyance coating her gaze.

"Why are you _here_ , Daryl?" Samara crossed her arms sharply. "You should be at the prison right now."

The man eyed her like she was crazy. "You're actually askin' me that after the stunt you pulled?" He pulled himself to his full height and practically bellowed. "What the hell were you thinkin' jumpin' into a hoard of walkers like that?!"

Samara took a deep calming breath. "I already told you. We needed to get the car moving and the only way to do that was through live bait."

"And you thought offerin' yourself up like a Thanksgivin' turkey was the answer?" He harshly tapped on the side of her head. "Are you retarded?"

"Don't do that!" She snapped as she pushed the offending appendage away. "What the hell else was there to do? Stay in the car and patiently wait until the walkers get tired and move on?" She snorted. "Like that was going to happen. I did the only thing possible at the time."

"Bullshit! You just do whatever the hell you want like always! We could've found a different way that didn't involve anyone tryin' to martyr themselves!"

Samara rolled her eyes at his train of thought. "Why the hell would I do a stupid thing like martyrdom? If I didn't think I would get out alive, I wouldn't have done it in the first place. I'm not a suicidal idiot."

"Really, you ain't? Kinda funny hearin' that from someone that got no problem puttin' a bullet in their skull."

"As a last resort _only_. How many times do I have explain that?" The Native then stilled. "Wait. Why the fuck do you even care how I handle my life? Aren't you supposed to be ignoring me?"

"When you do stupid shit like throwin' yourself into a crowd of walkers it's kinda hard to ignore!"

Instead of anger, a conceited grin spread her lips. "And here I thought that all that practice of the last week made you immune. _Lucky_ me."

With slow steps she approached the man until they were just a few inches apart, their body heat intermingling but never once reaching their stone hearts.

"So, it takes nothing short of death to get your complete attention." Her grin took on a sardonic edge. "That's good to know so I can _never_ do it."

She could see the blood in his neck pulse and knew he wanted to say something, but was fervently controlling himself. Samara wasn't impressed by his self-control, wishing he would scream instead. At least then he would be talking to her instead of acting like a gargoyle.

With a huff, the woman stepped back and cloaked herself in indifference. This wasn't the time or place to pick a fight with him despite her body's destructive urges.

"Are the others alright at least?"

"Yeah. Told 'em to get back to the prison and not come back after us." He shouldered his weapon as he checked the perimeter before turning to her determined. "We can't go back to Bowdon since there ain't nothin' but a horde of walkers there. We maybe got a six mile gap between here and there."

Samara mentally calculated. "That means two or three days on foot if we only travel by daylight."

The man nodded. "Better find a car then."

"Walking never did anyone any harm." Samara countered.

"I ain't got no reason to stay out here longer than necessary."

"Don't tell me you got domesticated, Dixon?" Samara leered unpleasantly.

Again, there was nothing but silence on his end. Samara grimaced in frustration once his back was turned. Just like the last week, he ignored everything she said. When he looked at her she felt invisible and it made her blood boil.

"Where are you going?" Samara all but spat as she followed in his wake.

"Saw a street over yonder. Best go that way."

Samara's fingers balled into fists. This cold wall she repeatedly bumped against frustrated her to no end. It wouldn't be long until she snapped and got verbally abusive. She could never stand being ignored in such a manner.

What worried her, though, was that it wouldn't have even the smallest of effects on the man.

* * *

Stepping off of solid earth, Samara and Daryl reached the promised street and found a sign.

 **Welcome to Ranburne, Alabama.**

Samara whistled as she stared in surprise at the sign. "Holy shit, we're in Alabama. We ran across into Lynyrd Skynyrd's hit song…" She subtly eyed the indifferent man beside her. " _You_ must feel at home."

His continuous frown fractionally deepened.

"I know it's hard for you to shut that gapin' asshole you call a mouth, but you can if you clench your lips real tight."

She smirked nastily, thrilled that she got a rise out of him. "But I thought you like sticking your tongue in my mouth, or in your words—my gaping asshole."

"Not when shit comes out."

A disgusted sound came from the back of her throat. _Did he really have to say that?_

Entering Ranburne had been without incident. The town, like so many before, came with abandoned streets. But after their recent brush with the undead, both trackers were weary of walkers hiding just out of sight.

The first car Daryl saw had been left open and he got straight to work on jump-starting it. Samara watched him fiddle with the wires underneath the steering wheel and scoffed lightly.

"Why am I not surprised…" _Of course he knows how to hotwire a car._

The Native scouted the street for any dangers. Except for a hungry fox there wasn't anything else living scouring the streets. Samara was sure that the few cars left behind were beyond help. After a winter like the one that just passed, she doubted the engines would work on their own. They would have to jump start them with energy they didn't have.

 _So much for transport…_

Her eyes ventured back to the hunter. Even now, she still couldn't believe he was here with her. She hadn't anticipated that he would stay behind. It made her feel inadequate, like she couldn't traverse Georgia's landscape without outside help. She hoped that wasn't the case, otherwise she'd lose all respect for him.

Well, at least she got her wish to have some time alone with him to talk. And yet…all they seemed to do was argue. In such close proximity to him, her frustrations poured out like a broken faucet and she couldn't, for the life of her, stop. He just made her _so_ angry.

This was all so pointless. Neither could overcome their resentment and stubbornness, so they were left to this awfully tense stalemate.

"Fuck!" Daryl straightened in the seat and sucked on the skin of his thumb. In anger, he punched the dashboard. "Piece of shit is dead!"

"I'm pretty sure everything in this town is dead. These cars are not going to start without jumpstarting their engines and even then they might not."

"We gotta try."

Samara rolled her eyes as she sat on the hood of the car while Daryl went back to forcing the engine. She wished she could say something to him, make him understand, but her vigor was diminishing with each moment in his presen—

The Native rose to her feet and even the hunter paused in his work.

"What was that?"

It happened again. A scream in the distance.

Both trackers listened carefully as gunshots and male shouts echoed across the empty street. Whoever they were they weren't too far from their position. Samara's eyes widened in surprise as a woman's plea resounded accompanied by a baby's cry.

"Someone's here." Daryl said as he jogged passed her. "Come on!"

With honed reflexes, Samara caught his arm, effectively stopping him from rushing ahead.

"You're not seriously thinking of following that scream, are you?"

"Yeah, I am. Someone needs help." He tried to pry his arm away without avail. "Stop waistin' time and let's go!"

Her fingers squeezed brutally over his bicep as her expression darkened.

"No."

Daryl glared terribly.

"Did you ever think it might be a trap?" A woman with a baby was the ideal way to draw 'shining knights' out in the open. Men, especially, could never resist since it was in their nature to protect. "That someone might be baiting naïve fools like you out in the open?"

"I know it might be a trap, but it also could be real. Right now, someone might be dyin' while we're sittin' here talkin'."

Successfully prying her fingers away, Daryl made a run for it only to have Samara step in his way and push him back. His jaw hurt from the way he controlled his, right now, unstable temper.

"We're here to find a car, not another person." The woman sneered unflatteringly. "Get your head straight."

The man scoffed as he could already envision her thought process. "Of course you'd leave someone out there to die. What the hell was I thinkin' even tryin' to ask _you_ for help?"

"This is not me being selfish, you ass. This is me being smart and not getting us unnecessarily involved in someone else's problem. If they die, we don't need to be dragged along with them." The way she saw it they had no duty towards helping those people, _if_ they really were in danger. "Just because they have a baby doesn't mean they matter. So, stop being an idiot and ignore it."

"Is that how you rationalize it? Some are lucky, some ain't? That's not how it works, Indian, not with _me_. When you got stranded at the farm, I bet you prayed to your Gods for any kind of help." The Native flinched at the remembrance and glowered hard, but Daryl wasn't deterred. "I ain't gonna let that happen _again_. I have to try."

The hunter sidestepped her and ran towards the screams.

"They're probably already dead by now!" Samara shouted after him, but it was in vain. His ears were closed off to her.

 _Bastard! He just had to use my situation!_ Of course Samara would have welcomed any kind of help at that time, but it never came. In the end, she had to rely on her own skills to save herself. So then, why the hell should she offer that help to some stranger? Why were they more worthy of it than _her_?

With a sigh, Samara followed the hunter. Not because her intentions were pure, but because she had to guard his back. It wouldn't do if he just got himself killed over some nameless people. She would never live that down.

As she reached the end of the small town, she saw in the distance a wide concrete bridge with two men atop a flat bed truck with one of them shooting at the undead. Most of the walkers were concentrated on a family van where the screaming woman and baby were locked inside. Other cars with luggage and clothes were scattered across the bridge.

Daryl had already started riddling walkers with arrows, slowly making his way towards the men. Samara joined him with her own bow, but kept her distance. She'd rather not get in a close range fight with either the undead or the two unknown men, if it came down to it. From her vantage point she had eyes on the happenings on the bridge.

The hunter met up with the men and with their combined efforts began to purge the walkers trying to claw their way inside the car while Samara shot the ones shuffling their way towards them from the other side of the bridge. Arrow after arrow flew and half of them didn't hit their intended target which was the brain, but Samara wasn't discouraged. She'll only resort to her guns as a last resort. Right now, she was having too much fun with the bow.

The last walker was pushed over the edge of the bridge by both Daryl and the older man and the battle reached its climax. The tension and adrenaline in the air was electrifying, providing Samara with renewed energy. She approached the vehicle with the now crying woman and peered inside. The baby couldn't be any older than a few months, but that wasn't what interested the marshal, it was the car itself.

It was _working_.

Unholsetring her gun, she tapped against the side window catching the woman's attention. She stared fearful at the end of the barrel.

" _Get out of the car."_ Samara spoke in fluent Spanish. A quarter of Arizona's population had been Hispanic so it was inevitable that she would pick up the language.

" _Hey!"_ The presumed father of the baby finally saw Samara and instantly disliked the way she loomed over his trapped wife. _"Get away from her!"_

Samara pointed her gun at him, cutting his words short. She knew he had no more bullets left since his gun was a six-shooter. Right now, he had nothing to defend himself or his family with. They were at _her_ mercy.

" _Take one more step and I'll shoot you."_ Samara threatened somberly. She would do it without regret if he tried anything funny. _"Tell your wife to get out of the car."_

" _Maria, come here!"_ The man shouted as he kept Samara in his sight. She could see the internal rage seething within him, but more importantly the worry for his wife and child and Samara had every intention of leeching off of that.

 _Easy prey._

The woman left the car hurriedly as her baby continued crying against her bosom no doubt tuning to the anxiety of its parent. The other man—a boy no older than fifteen stepped between Samara and his mother, glowering furiously at the woman holding them at gunpoint.

" _I won't hurt you or your family as long as you stay right where you are and keep still. I only want the car, nothing else. Your lives are unimportant to me."_

"What're you doin'?"

Samara heard Daryl's carefully void tune as he cautiously rounded up on her.

"We need a car, don't we? Start throwing out all that useless baggage form the trunk." She could hear his steps stop somewhere behind her and she readily thought he would start unloading.

—After all this time, how foolish she was to believe that.

"Get away from the car."

Slowly, Samara turned to peer over her shoulder and came face to face with Daryl's crossbow pointed at her with a fresh arrow loaded. The man holding the weapon was as equally determined as the finger poised against the trigger.

"Do it." Daryl strained as he glowered coldly at her.

There were no words to explain the sudden black feeling that settled in the pit of her stomach. Samara watched the man expressionlessly as her mind doubted. Would he do it? At this point, she wasn't sure anymore. Unwilling to take that chance, she rigidly lowered her gun and stepped away from the car never once breaking eye contact with the man.

Neither did Daryl as he addressed the family without once letting the Native out of his sight. He knew the marshal too well.

"Take your car and get the hell out of here."

The family stared at him in suspicion, unwilling to take a step further in case it was a ruse.

"Go!" The hunter bellowed urgently.

Samara heard their hurried steps and the start of the engine, but never once looked their way. They were inconsequential to the matter she was facing right now. The car must have left soon after as the duo was left on their own on the blood-spattered bridge.

—The tension could be cut with a knife.

Samara stared gravely at the man. There were so many things she wanted to do to him right now and neither was viewer friendly. That tar-colored feeling was now at a boiling point, but strangely the Native was externally calmer than she had ever been before.

Only when the car was well out of their range did Daryl lower his weapon. With no explanation, he bypassed her and left her alone on the bridge.

With eyes as sharp as jades, Samara quickly followed after his trail.

"What the fuck was that?" She spat as they returned to Ranburne's empty streets. "They had a working car and you just let them go."

"They were scared and they had a baby."

"So what?"

Daryl stopped and looked at her skewed.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" He spoke baffled beyond reason. "How the hell could robbin' someone blind be the first thought that pops in your head after seein' them in danger?"

"I'm thinking about _us_ , you idiot!" Samara shouted as the restraint and sweltering rage neared its breaking point. "Us getting the hell out of Alabama and back to the prison! What does it matter if I strand a few people? They'll find another car and be on their way."

"You said it yourself that startin' a car ain't gonna be easy." He countered.

"Well, it's a dog eat dog world, Daryl. Not all us get to survive."

Something seemed to click inside the hunter's mind as he stared at her anew.

"You've done this before." He spoke in incredulity. "Rob people."

"Only when I was desperate and this looks like a desperate situation to me." She answered barefacedly. She had nothing to hide.

"No, it ain 't. We can handle ourselves without cars, but those people couldn't… " Daryl's gaze was so empty that Samara could see her reflection in them. "How many times you've done it?"

"Twice."

"How did you do it? You stole everythin' they had on their backs and left 'em to die?" He sneered. "Or did you kill 'em after?"

"Goddamn you!" Samara exploded as he pushed him away violently. The fuse had finally reached its end. "Why do you always have to make the villain in everything! I never killed anyone as long as they didn't try to hurt me first! I do what I have to do to survive and I'm not going to apologize or feel bad for doing just that!" Again, she shoved him away and Daryl offered no resistance. "I took their belongings because I and those two women would've starved to death without them. I'm _done_ being the bad guy in our little post-apocalypse group drama. There are no bad or good people left anymore, Daryl, just survivors. You of all people know that. So stop looking at me like I just killed your fucking puppy!"

The man caught her wrists just as she tried to shove him again and pulled her into him. Her chest crashed against his and Daryl kept the woman caged into him as he frowned down in disappointment.

"Me and the others, we had days were we barely ate anythin', just scraps of stale food." His warm breath ghosted over her scornful features. "We had to resort to eatin' dog chow since it was the only thing that wasn't rotten and even then we had to give most of it to Lori because of the baby. But not _once_ did we ever think of robbin' no one. Not even when we met Tyreese and Sasha and they had food while we were skin and bones."

The woman barked with mocking laughter. "So, this is what you want to lay on me? Daryl the 'redneck with a heart of gold' while I'm the reincarnation of Medusa?" Her chuckle was abruptly cut as her tone took one an arctic aspect. "The only reason Tyreese shared his food is because he's got a soft, _weak_ heart. That family you just courageously saved wouldn't have given two shits if the roles had been reversed. They wouldn't have moved a pinky toe to help you because they wouldn't be stupid enough to risk getting themselves and their loved ones killed over a fucking _stranger_."

 _Does he really not understand this?_

"I didn't do it for thanks and neither because I'm good at heart. I did it because it was the _right_ thing to do." His brows furrowed in frustration and there seemed to be a pained edge to his voice. "I know that to you that marshal badge you carried don't mean nothin' no more, but you could at least try to be _human_. Why do you want everyone to lower themselves down to your level? Would it make you feel better?"

She scoffed as she pulled her hands from his now lax grip. "I actually see myself on a _higher_ level. Going lower would mean being like Beth or Carol or some other person that leeches off others."

"They ain't useless. Just because they don't go on runs with guns blazin' don't make them any less important. If the roles had been reversed, I bet you wouldn't know how to even work a washin' machine."

Like two wild goats they locked horns and banged heads, never once reaching a concession and Samara wanted no part of it anymore. She was done with these never ending arguments.

She walked away first.

"Where are you goin'?"

"Back to the prison on foot since we can't seem to get a car because of your bullshit."

* * *

Right now, she wanted nothing more than to reach the isolation of the jail. At least there she wouldn't have to be confronted with the hunter at every turn. She could peacefully ignore him until the end.

Night was upon them and Samara and Daryl were still on the road. They hadn't been able to find one working car so they resorted to walking. Samara hadn't spoken one word to him since they left Ranburne, treating him with indifference and coldness. There was no insight into the man's mind as he kept in the lead. Daryl seemed lost in his own thoughts as he barely regarded her. As long as he heard her steps follow he wasn't deterred from his path.

The tension between them felt like a powder keg and uttering just the wrong words would make it implode. Samara was sure that soon the last segment of the metaphorical bridge will be burnt for good, leaving nothing but ashes and animosity between them.

 _Good._

"We don't have much daylight left." He broke the silence as his gaze redirected towards the setting sun. "We need to find shelter."

"Where?" Samara snorted cynically. "Do you see a building anywhere nearby because I sure as hell don't."

"Don't screech at me, Indian. I didn't get us in this goddamn mess to begin with."

—He shouldn't have said that.

Samara stopped in the middle of the road as she regarded the man with a sneer. "Oh, I'm _sorry_ I risked my neck to save you guys. I'm _sorry_ I took the initiative instead of just sitting on my ass and waiting for a 'Deus Ex Machina' and I'm _really_ fucking _sorry_ for whatever else you think I did. How about the virus? Will you accuse me of spreading it next? How about World War II?"

"Did I fuckin' say that?!" The man gnashed his teeth at her.

"Yes, you did in not so many words! If this is such a hassle for you, why the fuck didn't you stay in the car? Nobody asked you to come back after me! I told you I'll be fine on my own!" Her glare was terrible as it contorted her features nastily. "Just because we fucked once doesn't make me your problem!"

"I didn't stay behind because of that! If it had been any of the others I would've done the same! I stayed because it's my job and as _long_ as you stay in this group I gotta keep you safe!"

Samara paused. Something in his phrasing…"As long as I stay?"

"Rick told me." _That you're gonna leave_. "He actually trusts me unlike you."

She scoffed. "Like that's any badge of honor. You're like the sailor who is willing to stay on the sinking ship with the captain. It's kind of stupid, but I can't expect anything better from a dumb hick like you. You're like a dog actually." Immediately, she leered like a jackal with a deceptively sweet voice. "Hey, if I give you a biscuit will you be my new Alistair?"

Something in the man's expression darkened. "Don't call me a fuckin' dog."

"Why not? It suits you." Her razor-sharp tongue lashed against his self-control like a whip. "You were a mutt before the virus and you're a mutt now!"

His fists clenched painfully. He looked about ready for violence. His entire body was taunt, veins bulging, eyes cutting like spiky needles and lips pursed tight.

 _Come on. Do it!_

But yet again, the man pissed on her expectations. With deep, heaving breaths, the man returned to his earlier impenetrable coldness. With a sharp turn, he continued on his path.

Samara felt her stomach constrict in disappointment. He wasn't supposed to just walk away like she was less than dirt.

"You fucking pussy…" She spoke lowly and hatefully melancholic. "Is this how _you_ deal with your problems, Dixon? You avoid them like the fucking plague because it offends your sensibilities?" To her this looked like was running away instead of talking to her. Again. With fury, her voice rose to unexpected heights. "You fucking emotionally repressed child! You really are _not_ worth the effort! I swear, I should have gone with Grimes instead." He paused in his step. "At least he understands and accepts me for who I am. You? You can't look past your own fucking insecurities!"

Without missing a beat, Daryl marched back to her and Samara waited for him with her fingers wrapped around the handle of her machete. She licked the bead of sweat that rolled near the corner of her mouth anticipating his attack. But Daryl did no such thing. His hand engulfed her own, stopping her from unsheathing her machete while the other grabbed the back of her neck and kept her in place as his forehead collided harshly with hers and remained there. Their heated breaths mingled as electricity passed through their glares.

"You're walkin' on thin ice, Samara." He whispered harshly with a quiet fury that Samara had never witnessed before. "I've been listenin' to you bitch at me for hours now and I'm gettin' _really_ tired of hearin' it. Now, we're gonna walk back to the prison in silence. No more fights, no more arguments. I don't even wanna hear a cough from you. I'm sick of hearin' your voice." His eyes narrowed further dangerously into slits. "Don't even think about not doin' what I tell you to."

The woman was unperturbed by his anger as she smirked mockingly. "Or what? You going to hit me? I'd _really_ like to see that. Come on, throw the first punch. I'm wide open."

 _Do it, damn you!_

"You'd like that wouldn't you?" He sneered. "That'd give you a good excuse to fuck around with me even more, right? 'Stupid Daryl, can't even understand when a woman is playin' him', that about right?"

Her features contorted into furious incredulity. "For the last time, that wasn't what I did! You took it out of context!"

His scoffed added more fuel to the fire.

"Why won't you listen to me?" A wisp of distress slithered into her tone and Daryl tensed, almost defensively against it.

"Because everythin' you say is either a lie or just bullshit to give you the upper-hand." Despite his coldness, there were fractures in his not so impenetrable shield. "I got no reason to trust you."

Samara remained silent, as the anger and melancholy drained from her features. Daryl disentangled from her, feeling that their conversation had reached its conclusion, but there was something in the air. A strange disturbance that had the hairs on the back of his neck stand at attention. Samara was far too calm, almost unnaturally empty.

"You know what? You're right." She nodded hollowly to herself. "I'm tired of this _ugly_ situation. It's draining me of energy and I don't have the strength anymore to fight with you. This thing between us was a _colossal_ mistake. A stupid fantasy by two equally stupid people, so I'm going to do both of us a favor and split this mismatched team up for _good_."

There was no hesitation in her voice.

"I'm _done_ , Daryl."

It wasn't only just this situation she was talking about, but the other as well. They really weren't good for each other. This day just proved it and it finally completely sunk in for the woman. Both were too set in their ways and far too stubborn to budge even an inch. Prolonging this awful situation seemed far too cruel at this point, so Samara did the only thing possible.

—She cut the cord.

Daryl stood there with his eyes far wider than usual, but Samara paid it no mind. She was shutting herself off as she sidestepped him and continued in their walk towards the prison.

Samara felt like she achieved a hollow victory. There was nothing to cheer about, but at least she resolved it. From now on, they were temporary colleagues. They'll work together and that was it. No talking, no touching. Nothing else beside chores and tasks.

It was for the bes—

 _The fuck?!_

Samara gasped as Daryl bear hugged her from behind and raised from the ground.

"What are you doing?!" She began struggling, uncomprehending of just exactly what he was thinking to accomplish by this.

"You can't just say that and walk off!" He barked in her ear, making the strands of her hair fly. "That ain't how it works!"

"Let go!"

Samara tried to free herself using her own strength, but it felt like iron was trapping her arms to her body. His strength outmatched hers by far and panic began to swell inside her chest. It wasn't the first time he had incapacitated her, but it still felt jarring at how easy it was. Time and time again, she had to be reminded that in a physical fight he would win the vast majority of the time.

 _Get off!_

Samara turned her head, their eyes connecting for a moment before she viciously bit his jaw.

Daryl hissed as teeth penetrated skin and blood overflowed. That one moment of distraction gave Samara the chance to break free of his hold. She stepped away from him, putting a large enough distance and watched as Daryl gently prodded his now inflamed skin. Even from a distance she could see the bloody teeth marks.

 _Serves him right._

Samara got rid of her small backpack, quiver and compound bow and crouched lightly into a defensive position. There was nothing but pure rage wafting off of her and there was only one way she could release it.

—With her fists.

"Come on."

Daryl must have realized what she was hinting towards as he adamantly refused.

"Hell no."

"Yes, you are. We never got to end that fight." Her eyes hardened into stone. "We're going to settle this right here, right now."

"No." He remained unmoved.

She shrugged unperturbed. "Suit yourself."

Daryl ducked as the first fist came by his head. The second brushed the surface of his stomach. Again and again he dodged her furious assault, never once giving him the opportunity to stop her. Every time he tried to make a grab to incapacitate, she would slip out of his reach a second too fast. The Native was serious about fighting him, from her posture to the force she applied in her punches. She was aiming to hurt _badly_.

Daryl wasn't going to join in her game.

Samara dodged his fingers once more and crouched low to grab a handful of dirt. Daryl was a second too late to realize what she was aiming for as dust and earth was thrown into his face, blinding him. With his sight impaired and his mind distracted it gave Samara ample time to deliver a blow in the form of a knee to his stomach. Spit flew out of the man's mouth as he bended over himself in pain. Samara had been especially brutal with that hit.

A slender arm snaked around his throat and constricted, choking the hunter only enough to find it difficult to breathe. Daryl gritted his teeth as a fist made the first contact with his sides. Repeatedly, Samara landed vicious hooks to his kidneys in attempt to immobilize him and maybe even render him unconscious. It seemed this was a favorite move of hers.

Through the haze of pain, Daryl knew that he had to act soon or lose. Extending his arms forward he grabbed onto her thighs and pulled them toward him in an attempt to destabilize her. It worked, only Samara seemed to have expected this and wrapped her legs around his hips, squeezing the life out of him. Never once did she pause in her assault, each time finding new areas to bruise.

Her one mistake was leaving her back open and Daryl knew that if he slammed her into the ground, the fight would be over but then she'll have problems walking. He wasn't about to do that, but what he could do was this—

Pulling his head back, he head-butted her that even his own jaw shook from the impact. The strike must have hit her like a hammer as Daryl noticed that she lost consciousness for a few seconds. Hitting the ground on his back, Daryl made sure to disentangle from her while she was still in a daze and mercilessly crushed the Native into the ground with him on her back and her, face first into the dirt.

Understanding her position, Samara began to struggle to buck him off, but Daryl caught her wrists and held them in a vice grip behind her back, caged between his body and hers. Her legs kicked out and the hunter had to wrap his own leg around her thighs to stop her. It was an awkward position that put strain on all his muscles, but there wasn't any other way. He had to restrain her with his own limbs and his own pressured body weight.

"Stop, goddammit! This ain't gonna resolve anythin'!" He barked at her in frustration.

"No, but it will make me feel a whole lot fucking better!"

With a hiss, Daryl cringed as the back of her head made contact with his face. Even though it felt like his nose had relocated into his brain, he worked through the pain as he transferred her bound wrists to only one hand and with the other pushed her head sideways into the ground. The woman spat and cursed as half of her face was grinded it into the dirt, feeling it scrape her skin raw.

"Get off me!"

"Not until you calm down!"

Underneath the anger, the frustration and the incredulity at her boldness, Daryl felt _elation_. The fact that he got to hold this unbelievably stubborn woman once again despite the way it turned out felt nothing short of wild enjoyment. He had tried to quell that persisting emotion that still had him gravitate towards her, but it couldn't be stopped. Whenever she was near, no matter how ugly or good the situation was, he felt a sense of relief. Daryl could honestly say he'd never met anyone like her nor had he ever felt this kind of unnatural domineering sensation from himself. He wouldn't let her win, not this time. It gave him too much pleasure seeing her fight with every fiber of her being. Half was out of pride that she wasn't the type to give up easily even when the situation looked bleak while the other half gave him a primeval sense of power over her more inferior strength.

—The flames of desire stirred within him.

He could almost feel that anger of hers burn his skin and yet, it didn't deter him. It just encouraged his determination to _not_ let her go, no matter how horrible it got.

A twig snapped loudly.

Both trackers ceased their struggle and focused in the direction of the sound. From the growing foliage, a walker stumbled out and shambled straight towards them. Daryl reacted instinctively as he grabbed the gun holstered at the woman's thigh and shot the walking corpse in the head. It fell with a disgusting squelch and to their growing agitation, they could hear more in the distance, restless by the gunshot.

—It seemed the Bowdon walkers had caught up to them.

The hunter immediately disconnected from the Native. The walkers were a more immediate concern than their fight and Samara seemed to be of the same mind as she unholstered her silenced gun and stared out into the foliage where a group was rushing as fast as their decayed legs could take them.

"Oh, this is just perfect." The Native scoffed with disinterest as she shot one of them in the forehead. "You motherfuckers are _exactly_ what was missing from this picture. How the hell do you keep popping up whenever a fight starts?" Lowering her gun, she picked up a rock and launched it at one. "Go back to chasing stranded people, you undead bastards!"

The rock easily lodged into the empty socket of a walker, the force toppling it to the ground. Like a turtle, it struggled to get on its back evoking the marshal's disgust.

During this time, Daryl had picked up his forgotten crossbow along with Samara's backpack.

"Let's go!"

Samara spat in the direction of the hoard before hastily picking up her discarded bow and quiver, and followed the hunter further into Georgia's darkening background.


	21. Anger Management

Daryl yawned widely as small tears gathered at the corner of his eyes.

The sun rose over Georgia, basking it in lovely spectral light. Even the birds had began their morning chorus, giving Daryl a good wakeup call as he straightened on his branch. For the entire night, he and the Indian had spent it high up in a tree, alternating between vigilance and sleep. Slumber hadn't been come easy, the thought of walkers kept Daryl from closing his eyes for the majority of the time. Even the marshal was too coiled up to sleep properly as she kept waking up every twenty minutes and checking for danger. Walkers wouldn't be able to reach their height, but that still didn't keep them from being highly suspicious.

The hoard had moved on hours ago, leaving nothing but a few stragglers trailing behind. Daryl had breathed in relief once the last of the corpses dispersed and they were finally given respite. The man just wished he had slept even remotely decent since he would need energy to continue on their journey towards the prison.

Blue eyes slid over to the sleeping marshal on the other side. Like him, she was positioned awkwardly, straddling the thick branch with strong hands…hands that not several hours ago tried to beat him into the dirt.

Thoughts darkened as the hunter was reminded of yesterday once again. The instant she had climbed out of the car in her mad scheme had been one of the most heart-pounding moments of his life. For just a few bleak seconds, Daryl had believed that would be the last time he would see the Indian—that she signed her death warrant and he hadn't been able to prevent it. _Again_. The thought that a repeat of the farm was happening right before his eyes had left him thunderstruck, unable to utter even a word as his stomach constricted in anxiety.

 _She's gonna die_ —that was the only thought revolving around in his mind. A twisted, gut-churning thought that propelled him to leave the car in search for her. If he was able to help her this time then he wasn't about to shrink away from it. He would not repeat a past mistake. Alive or dead, it didn't matter, Daryl had to reach her. He had to know for _sure_.

Finding her had proven to be both mentally and physically exhausting. He hadn't been kidding when he said that tracking her down hadn't been easy. It had probably been one of the most challenging moments of his life. The woman's step had been almost indiscernible in the barrage of walker prints. After a few dead ends, he had to hurry up his pace since each wrong track left him further and further away. Only by a stroke of luck did he manage to finds hers. Stealthy and light, he recognized the cautious way they were positioned and spaced apart that no walker could produce. Though he still couldn't breathe easily since Samara could yet still be in danger. Hours passed with no sight of her except for the occasional walker. Like a hare he managed to evade the bulk of the hoard and be one step ahead of them. With each passing hour, he felt hope dwindle as sometimes her steps disappeared and, frantically, he broadened his area search, terrified of finding just bloodied pieces. Sadistically, his mind would conjure up grotesque images and Daryl vehemently ignored them. From experience he knew Samara wasn't that easy to take down.

Daryl couldn't believe that almost being struck by an arrow could have given him such joy. Samara was alive and well. Yet, despite his happiness, he hadn't been able to restrain himself. It had been instantaneous. After so many hours of worrying and general stress, his relief at her safety came out under the guise of anger. Whatever this woman did, she always managed to evoke such extreme contradictions within him, and like the haughty woman that she was, she just shrugged off her dangerous death defying stunt, further aggravating the hunter's fickle temperament. Why couldn't she just stay put and not throw herself into the fire? How many times must he pull her out of harm's way? That frustrated him more than anything. It wasn't her job to safe guard them and neither had she ever been inclined to it before, so she had no reason to act so chivalrously. Daryl couldn't accept her reasoning. Practicality and rationale only went so far. So he shouted and cussed at her for her stupidity, for making such severe decisions….for making him worry when he swore he would never again for her.

He hated this feeling that tore at him. No matter how mad he got, there was still that pestering pull that gravitated him towards her. Always within range, yet never touching. It was pure mental and physical torture, and he honestly couldn't understand why he put himself through it. He hadn't asked for it. He just wanted peace of mind, not frustrations atop tribulations. He swore that not even death could keep his mind from venturing to her, case proven already.

Daryl _truly_ wished he could cut the cord and forget about her. He had never had any predilection towards affection or relationships beyond camaraderie for anyone. Even now he didn't, but no matter what he did he couldn't shake off that undeniable pull. Like the sun and moon orbiting around each other. But like with them, the moment they got too closer, gravitation would have them collide resulting in disaster.

An impossible situation, Daryl thought as he let his head fall back on the cold bark. They were doomed for calamity because both were too set in their ways to change. Pride and stubbornness were practically their nature. For all her efforts in trying to talk him about that night, not _once_ had she apologized. Maybe if she had started with that he would have listened, but no, Samara would need to have her teeth pulled with pliers before she uttered those two words.

Daryl sighed heavily as he stared out into the blooming canopy as the morning sky bled scarlet and orange. After he had calmed down from his initial rage of that night, he had looked at the situation rationally. Samara had been drunk and drunken people were bound to say a lot of things, true or false. What he couldn't discern at that time was which side her words favored. Her continuous failed efforts had led him to believe that she had been truthful, but for different reasons and not the ones he imagined. He wished it had been for the motives he conjured because then it gave him clear evidence to hate and to stay away from her distracting presence.

While he did come to this realization, it didn't mean that he would suddenly forgive and forget. Daryl hated having his ego bruised. The only other person that ever managed to hit so precisely and cuttingly had been Merle, and he wanted no part of his brother to be associated with the Indian.

Daryl's fists clenched at the memory of their altercation before the hoard caught up to them. She had called him a dog. That one word cut more deeply than any cuss word in existence. He knew he had been a nobody before the virus. He hadn't been anything like her with responsibilities and he never wished for it since life had been too complicated without the addition of a woman. Moreover, his own family hadn't exactly been normal. He would be a bastard to wish that on a wife or a child. If there was one thing in life that he had adamantly strived towards was never repeating history.

And then, to add insult to injury, she uttered Grimes' name. A sort of red haze settled over Daryl's sight and he felt his blood simmer. Like a festering wound being applied lemon juice and salt just out of spite. He knew this and yet hadn't been able to remain undisturbed. That name spoken by her at that time had probably jarred him more than anything else she had screamed.

—Was that what he was? Just a choice between him and Rick? Then why not go for the sheriff instead? He seemed the better alternative and they actually got along. She wouldn't have to go through all the trouble that she had with him. Maybe it was because Rick still had a wife, although estranged, and the woman had proclaimed once that she despised home-wreckers. In the end, Daryl proved the safest choice because he had no such ties. He was the _practical_ choice. If Lori hadn't been in the picture then—

The man grimaced, finding these thoughts both offensive and repulsive.

His features blanched once the echo of words reached him.

" _I'm done, Daryl."_

How such simple words could cause even someone as hardened as him to break out into a cold sweat. It had been unexpected as it inexplicably gripped his heart like a tight fist, ready to crush it into a gooey pulp. Despite wishing for such an end, to hear it actually voiced out loud had dropped a cold stone in his stomach. It left him uncoordinated and troubled, resulting in him impulsively swiping her off her feet and stopping her from cutting that fragile bond entirely. He wasn't ready to let go, not yet. As the Indian bit, fought and struggled, it just hammered in the instinct to keep her even closer and confined. She didn't have the right to just walk away like that, not after everything.

He wondered what would have happened if the walkers hadn't interrupted them. Would the fight have continued or would they have stopped to actually _talk_ , something that neither had tried doing after all this time. As much as it pained him, Daryl was willing to make the first step in understanding, but the question was, would Samara even try or would she shun him as she had proclaimed.

Rustle.

Looking up, Daryl witnessed the first signs of the woman awakening. Shutting down his musings for the day, he did a quick and thorough perusal of the area before deeming it safe. As he descended the tree, he heard the woman yawn loudly as she straightened out and hissed. Daryl could see her pained grimace, no doubt a product of her damaged spine.

Dammit, their pace would have to be slower than usual for today. Samara will have to strain herself to keep up, further delaying their arrival.

"Any stragglers?" He heard her whisper.

Daryl shook his head as he planted his feet on the ground. His own features contorted as he craned his stiff back and neck. They were as straight as boards.

Samara soon joined him and they both shared her rations. The food will only sustain them enough for today. After that, they would have to either starve until they got to the prison or hunt. Hunting meant more time wasted, but it seemed they had no choice.

The journey home began once again, and this time it was kept in silence. The commotion from yesterday had drained them of their will to talk and considering how it ended, they'd rather not have a repeat of it. While it felt a welcome break from their usual bickering, it still aggravated the hunter. He wasn't used to having the Indian so quiet. Usually, she snarked a bit or mused of times passed, but now she was as quiet as a tomb.

—It disturbed his calm, surprisingly.

As he had predicted, Samara lagged behind. She twisted and turned the backpack and quiver as they added extra discomfort to her sore muscles. Having enough of it, Daryl had snatched them from her without a word and she hadn't even peeped indignantly. She seemed resolute in playing the indifferent statue, much to Daryl's chagrin. He'd rather have her snap at him.

They passed small patches of forests and crop fields, always heading east. As the day progressed, Daryl could tell that the Indian was getting worse, but she didn't complain. She marched on like a soldier, restraining herself from displaying her weakness. Daryl knew that they'd soon have to find a place to rest their tired bones, even if night wasn't upon them for many hours yet.

It was in a particular batch of a forest that they found their shelter and Daryl almost wished he had never once thought of it.

"Is that a drug dealer's house?" Samara panted as she narrowed her eyes on the shabby structure in the distance.

"Nah, that's a moonshine home factory." Daryl observed it with mild disgust. He was all too familiar with that type of building. "Might be empty, might not."

Unloading Samara's backpack, he picked up his crossbow readily. "Stay here. I'm gonna clear it out. If shit happens, don't show yourself. You run."

"Like I fucking can…" She huffed as she leaned against a tree with sweat pouring down her face and limbs shaking lightly.

Daryl gritted his teeth. He disliked seeing her in such a state. It devaluated her as a vicious fighter. Like a beast with its fangs clipped. He too himself hated being weak, even more if others saw that weakness and he was sure Samara was of the same mind.

Although reluctantly, Daryl pushed forward and inspected the house.

* * *

Samara plopped into the raggedy armchair, careful of her aching limbs.

The house had been empty after all as Daryl had waved her inside not even a minute of entering. It was a dirty place with two rooms, a small open kitchen and bathroom that had never seen the prickly end of a cleaning brush. Even the ground was clustered with newspapers and clothes and cigarette butts and other things she had no intention of touching lest she catch a disease.

Samara despised it. It was trashy and it reminded her of the rednecks back in West Virginia, instantly rising up her hackles. Of all places, she had to end up in a place like this.

From the kitchen she could see Daryl pop open every cupboard in search for something. She didn't really care what for since she had more pressing matters on her mind. Getting rid of all the weapons strapped to her body, she sighed in relief at the loss of such weights. She desperately needed to stretch her aching limbs and she'd rather do it now while she had time before they departed once more.

"Found it." Daryl's proclamation was followed by a clink of glass.

"What?" Samara asked barely interested as she focused on working through some stretching moves.

The man's fleeted to her for a moment as she worked out before settling a case of jars and bottles filled with clear liquid on the low coffee table.

Samara threw it a glance, deducing its nature. "I'm guessing that's the moonshine."

Daryl crouched low and unscrewed one jar. One sniff was all it took to have him lean away with a sneeze.

"Strong, too." He grimaced at the long forgotten scent. "Drink some."

The Native gave the jar a sharp look before traveling to the man offering it. She saw no reason to drink something as vile as moonshine, but it gave her an opportunity to bite at him.

"So you can accuse me of some other shit I didn't do? No thanks."

"No." Daryl breathed heavily. "It's to numb out the pain."

She shook her head. "One drop of that and I'm out."

This wasn't whisky or vodka, moonshine was almost pure alcohol. She wouldn't be surprised if it didn't send her straight into a coma if she drank it. Samara would rather brave through the pain than drink that hillbilly piss.

Daryl shrugged before taking a drink himself and groaning immediately. He held his throat as it burned him and Samara's lips quirked. He looked like he had just sucked on a lemon, all pursed and teary eyed.

"Second round's always better." He croaked as he regained his voice before steadying himself and downing another shot.

Samara shook her head at his macho display and returned to her exercises. As she stretched from side to side, she noticed a pink 'thing' near the armchair hidden by porn magazines. Pushing the papers away with her foot, she rolled her eyes at the offending bon-bon colored object.

" _Lovely_." She revoltingly kicked the boob shaped ashtray in a corner, spilling the contents all over the dusty carpet. "Who the hell buys this crap?"

"My dad."

Her confusion was understandable.

"Dumbass would set those up on top of the TV and use 'em as target practice." Daryl looked at the overturned ashtray with apathy.

"Inside the house?"

"It was just a bunch of junk anyway." As he got up, he paced around the house with his gaze lost in appraising every bit of the broken house. "You got your dumpster chair. That's for sittin' in your drawers all summer drinkin'. Got your fancy buckets. That's for spittin' chaw in after your old lady tells you to stop smokin' and here, you got your internet."

He kicked a neatly stack of newspapers and looked around in disgust, almost as if wishing the place would catch on fire.

Whatever memory this place instigated, it wasn't a pretty one, Samara thought shrewdly.

"We're gonna rest here until tomorrow." Daryl said as he picked up his crossbow and arranged it over his shoulder, business like. Whatever murky shadow haunted him before was now gone from his gaze, leaving him in his usual frowning state.

"We still have plenty of hours left until the sun sets." While Samara was glad for this reprieve, she desperately wanted to reach the prison. Being in this close proximity to this man was becoming almost suffocating.

"I wanna scout around. Get a feel of where we are before headin' out. I'll be back before sunset."

Samara nodded as she passed him her compass and returned to her work. She listened as Daryl's steps took him out of the house until they disappeared entirely from her hearing. With a deep exhale, she sank to the floor, no longer interested in continuing her routine despite the soreness. She just wanted to stew in her thoughts.

The pain combined with the emotional turmoil from yesterday had left her feeling hollow. There was nothing more she wanted than to lie down, stare in emptiness and think of nothing. She needed to clear her mind and focus once more on herself. It was March already which meant that in a month or so she'd be good to go. Another few weeks with Hershel and she'll get the gist of farming, and it will allow her to further strengthen her tolerance to pain. Even now, with the running and tree sleeping it hadn't produced the degree of pain she had been expecting, but a slightly duller one. She was healing along nicely. Another few months and she'll be down to a discomfort.

But as the thought of leaving came, it brought along a sense of displacement as if it was a wrongdoing on her part. Samara frowned uncomprehending at the slight terror that gripped her heart from the image of her walking passed those chain fences. She wasn't afraid to face the wild, open world. She'd done it before and knew what awaited her. She was smarter now with a few extra skills, so she had no reason to fear for her life. Then what was it?

…Leaving the others?

She scoffed. Like hell. Andrea and Michonne yes if they decided not to accompany her, but the others she wouldn't really miss all that much. Some she had no emotional connection to while others, while friendly and nice, weren't enough to dissuade her. Grimes…now, she'll miss him. But who knew, perhaps one day they'll meet again. They seemed to be inclined towards always crossing paths.

 _Daryl…_

Her lips tugged downwards. She didn't want to think about him. She'll probably be glad to be rid of him once out of the prison.

The sight of him staring forlornly and in distaste at the house flashed before her eyes and Samara gritted her teeth harshly.

 _Keh._

What did she care? He could go rot.

* * *

Samara woke in a flash as she heard wood creak. Raising her upper body with gun in hand, she was for a second confused to her location. But the reappearance of the hunter had everything come crashing back—the hoard, him, the fight and the house. Daryl entered the house, externally unperturbed by the flash of her weapon.

She must have fallen asleep sometime ago, Samara thought as she yawned wide and stretched her arms over her head. Even f it had been just three hours it was a welcome respite from her earlier sleeping bout on rough bark.

"Found what you were looking for?" She untied her low ponytail and combed her fingers through the rat's nest that was currently her hair.

Daryl nodded as he settled at the coffee table with, surprisingly, a map.

"We're half a mile from Roopville." His finger pinpointed the small town near their location. "We pass that and we'll end up in Chattahoochee Bend State Park. Quickest way to get to Newnan is by goin' though it."

"That has to be thirty miles, more or less." Samara deduced as she looked over the map.

"More like twenty if we go in a straight line. First light come morning, we leave. This way we reach the prison sometime afternoon."

It was a plan.

Samara returned to her place on the cold floor while Daryl relocated to the front porch, leaving the door open. He unlaced the two squirrels attached to his belt.

Thud.

Absentmindedly, the Native spared the critter that landed near her side a glance. His actions were clear— _skin your own squirrel_.

With a hiss, Samara rose to a sitting position and dragged herself to the armchair to have some support for her back. Crossing her legs, she began working on the critter. At least this would give her something to do.

Only the swish of their blades and the squelch of raw flesh echoed inside the house.

Subtle eyes landed on the back of the man's head. Even now the teeth marks she had left behind shined red, but at least the inflammation had reduced. Thinking of his battle scars made her rethink of her own. With gentle fingers she prodded the bruise on her forehead and winced. It still hurt and no doubt there was a nasty purple bruise in place. Damn bastard had head-butted her with the force of a ram.

The unmistakable stench of blood assaulted her senses as she perforated the skin and muscle and reached the organs.

"How many squirrels can a person possibly eat before getting sick of them?" She asked this more to herself than anything.

A scoff resounded. "You'd be surprised."

The air was so strange right now between them. Fragile like a wound that recently stopped bleeding. One small wrong tear and the blood would flow once again. Both nursed bruised egos and both were cautious of falling in a squabble before they recharged their batteries. Their frustrations of earlier days had all culminated in that one fight and now they felt vacant. Besides, they were too exhausted to think of anything other than eating and sleeping.

"How's your back? Think you can make the trip tomorrow?"

Samara grunted as she straightened her spine. "It's better, but there's this low-pounding like a headache that just won't go away. I need Hershel's magic hands." A fist crashed against the floorboards, disturbing the thick blanket of dust. "Fuck, I hate this situation! I should just go back on the pills. At least then I don't have to deal with this shit."

No matter what she did, the pain will always be there with her like a second shadow. It might dull over time, but its presence was unfaltering.

 _A cripple's life for me, yo-ho._

Samara grimaced.

"Turn over."

She threw him an odd look.

"I can't knead your back without seein' it." He said this without looking at her as he seemed more fascinated with wiping the blood and guts off his hands. The squirrel he had been working on was laid bare on a newspaper.

 _What the hell is he talking about?_

"Did you fall and hit your head while scouting?" That was the only explanation that would fit this bizarre request of his.

"Look, right now you can barely move for shit and I ain't carryin' you on my back all the way to the prison. And I sure as hell ain't stoppin' for another day because you can't walk."

"No." Without question.

"Don't be stubborn."

She chuckled snidely. "I'm just following your lead, Dixon. I don't trust you not to try and hurt me while my back is turned."

His eyes widened in disbelief. "Why the hell would I do that?"

"I don't know, but in _your_ mind it might seem logical."

Daryl gritted his teeth as Samara threw his words back at him. She wasn't kidding, though. Right now, she didn't want him near her.

"Since we've both decided not to trust each other anymore, I have no reason to listen to you." Her eyes were as cold as two shards of ice. "At the moment, I'm simply cooperating since we're going in the same direction, but that's it. I wasn't kidding back then. Once we reach the prison, we both go our separate ways."

 _It's for the best._

A heavy silence followed. She did not spare him a glance, preferring to work on the squirrel. She just had a few more organs to throw out and it would be ready to cook.

"…What did you mean by those words then?"

Samara paused in her work dumbfounded only to quickly pick up the pace. She has not expected him to ask that. "Doesn't matter anymore. You think what you want, good or bad."

Again he scoffed. "You've been badgerin' me all week and now you give up? That ain't like you."

"Exactly." She frowned mildly irritated. Where was he going with this discussion? "It's not like me to act as bait, it's not like me to save a convict and it's not like me to sleep with _you_ …but I did all those things." Her eyes cut him ruthlessly. "That's what you can't accept and why understanding each other will never work."

"How do you expect me to after everythin'?" He kicked the threshold in frustration. "I only anticipate what I know. We fight, we bicker, we shout. We ain't never once been friendly and even when we were it was just for some underlyin' reason. So, yeah, when you start bein' actually _nice_ I start gettin' suspicious because it just makes me think you either want somethin' or you're up to somethin'."

"That just proves that it's impossible to trust each other." If you were constantly bombarded by thoughts of distrust and always seeking that chink in the armor instead of accepting things at face value, then there was really no point in trying.

"…Sometimes you give me reason to and sometimes you don't." He said impassively and with little emotion. "That's the truth. I can't give more than I'm given. Can you honestly say it's any different for you?"

Samara said nothing. She didn't have to.

"I ain't nowhere near perfect, but I've been tryin' to make myself better." He sighed deeply as he settled against the doorsill, his gaze distant. "I've been told my entire life I was bad seed, but here I am with these people that say different. That I'm dependable. Someone that could be counted on for anythin' and I _like_ that." Samara finally looked at him, but Daryl kept his gaze into the still forest before him. "I like knowin' that I'm needed and not just for catchin' game. If you think that makes me a dog, don't so be it. Dogs ain't bad, they protect what matters to them to their dyin' breath."

The furless squirrel lay forgotten in her lap as she stared vacantly. He was allowing her a glimpse behind that shell he protected himself from the outside world and she was troubled by it. He wasn't trying to lay the foundation of a new bridge, instead simply explaining himself. This would be the first time he actually talked about himself in depth and in such length that it left the Native anxious. The fact that he would initiate a deeper conversation with _her_ of all people meant that he had a goal in mind. He wouldn't do it willingly otherwise.

Samara hesitated. To go into a heart-to-heart with this man could lead down a road foreign to both of them. They weren't in the habit to talk about themselves beside superficial matters, but her curiosity won her over. There were things they needed to clear out and _maybe_ …that would give them a bit of insight about each other.

"You know, at first I thought finding that girl was your way of making up for whatever fucked up childhood you had," She held up a hand to stop him from interrupting her. "And don't say you didn't because you don't turn up like _this_ from having family picnics and ice-cream Sunday's. That girl was your second chance, wasn't she? To become _somebody_ in this new world. To reshape yourself. To be better…" She smirked derisively. "Redemption and damnation. I guess opposites do attract."

He understood her meaning and frowned. "You ain't damned."

"No, but I'm also not a nice person and I'm fine with that." She caught his gaze. "Are you?"

Silence.

 _There's my answer,_ Samara's smirk widened. Of course he couldn't. Once you shed off a skin, you don't burrow back into it. You keep moving forward. This was the only difference between him and Grimes. The sheriff had long ago accepted her for who she was. Maybe because he himself understood this dark world a bit better and was not so inclined to believe in the goodness of man anymore. Daryl still clung to that slither of redemption born out of this new world.

"I saw red."

Samara frowned in confusion.

"When you said those things that night and yesterday." He exhaled heavily. "I just saw red and couldn't think straight. Reminded me of everythin' before the virus. Had me so angry that I just went back to bein' that guy from the camp in Atlanta…" He scowled as if reminded of a particular nasty memory.

"I was drunk that night." She explained worn out. How many times must she stress this?

"I realized that days later once I calmed down. People say a lot of things, good and bad. I ain't no stranger to sayin' or doin' stupid things when drunk." He could count them by the calendar, some worse than others. "Just wanted you to know that."

"Then why did you avoid me?"

He shrugged still not looking at her.

 _Because of pride._

Samara understood finally. He wouldn't grovel, not to her and not after everything. They both had been in the wrong and neither wanted to say those words first. Even Samara had had no intention of apologizing, she had just wanted to straighten out the misunderstanding.

"…Do you really think my ass is ugly?"

The question surprised the hunter as he finally turned to her, baffled. Of all the things she had to say, that wasn't what he had expected.

"No. Didn't mean any of that shit I said."

"I did." The frown lines returned to his brow as Samara spoke calmly. " _Some_ of them. Before and after that night." She shrugged hopelessly. She wasn't going to lie, some of the words she believed and some had just been out of spite. "Couldn't help it. You made me so angry and I knew what to say to hurt you. I shouldn't have called you a dog, though. I don't know what your situation was before all this."

An awkward silence soon settled.

That had to be the strangest string of apologies Samara had ever witnessed before between two people. But then again, the two of them never did follow the norm so doing things unorthodoxly was more of a calling card than anything.

She might not be able to say it straight, but to her actions spoke louder than any words.

"Have you ever given a massage before?"

"No." His interest piqued. "But it can't be that hard."

With a sigh, she grudgingly took off her denim jacket along with her hoodie and hiked up the shirt underneath, leaving her with her back exposed. Daryl remained expressionless as she turned with her back to him.

He didn't move.

"Well?" Samara snapped as a cool draft ghosted over her skin, prickling it.

Cautiously, the man moved. She felt his presence settle just behind her and along with it, his body warmth. His legs stretched on either side of her.

"How did Hershel do this?" He asked perplexed as he stared at her bare back.

"Feel for knots." She brushed her hair to one side. "When you find one put some pressure on it, but not too strong. They hurt like hell. Move your fingers in a circle until you can't feel the bumps anymore.

Samara flinched once the rough pads of his fingers settled on her warm skin. Images of sleek skin, panting breaths and lewd groans flashed before her eyes. Severely, she pinched her eyes shut to be rid of them lest her heart skipped a beat. Now was not the time to lose her cool.

Daryl's fingers hesitantly brushed over her back, still unsure of how to proceed. Samara could tell from his jerky and unsure movements how painfully inexperienced he was in this area. She had to hold in her winces and grimaces at the mistakes he made and was on the verge of dropping this whole ordeal when he stumbled across the first knot.

Samara almost melted into his arms when he applied just the tiniest bits of pressure. His fingers stilled once he heard her moan, thinking it was in pain. The Native dissuaded his thoughts and motioned to continue. It felt heavenly having her back tended after such a grueling ordeal. It might not be the best, but it was the only thing at hand at the moment. It was good enough.

Samara moaned again as his pressured pads moved in circles over the lumpy knot. Vaguely, she registered his legs beside her stiffen.

"Do you do that with Hershel?" The voice behind her sounded on edge, as if greatly holding back.

"What?" She peeked behind her, foggy brained from the release of ache. Daryl was watching her with guarded eyes and strained features, almost like he was in pain.

 _The hell is wrong with him?_

"That. Moanin'."

It clicked then.

A dreadful grin stretched her features, making her resemble a sly fox. "Is it making you _uncomfortable_ , Dixon?"

His eyes narrowed in response to her arrogant teasing.

"You sound like a bitch in heat."

Swiftly, he caught the elbow that headed straight for his face.

"I told you to stop tryin' to hit me." He hissed at the glaring woman.

Samara felt the veins on her forehead about to pop. Antagonizing her at such a vulnerable time was not a good idea, especially after she just apologized.

As the woman sent daggers with her eyes, Daryl felt it again. That same stirring from their fight yesterday in the pit of his stomach. Like a waking beast, it growled and grumbled the more he stared into the fire behind her glower. She was so close he could almost feel her heart beating against his chest. That faint herbal scent her hair gave off sent a shiver down his spine. He wanted to feel her again so badly and the fact that she was sitting before him, her smooth back bare for him to see was nothing less than _painful_. With that thought, an onslaught of repressed emotions spewed forth reliving him of his control.

Daryl did the unthinkable.

He kissed her.

Samara's eyes widened as she gasped in surprise, giving the man the edge to deepen the kiss. The Native felt his tongue slide across the roof of her mouth and, in reaction to his eagerness, she gave in. Her own tongue came out to play and stroked his own appendage producing wet sounds. Thrilled by her responsiveness, Daryl's hand came up to the side of her face and titled her further into him for better access.

That heat in Samara's belly was back, threatening to scorch her as rough fingers stroked her cheek with atypical gentleness. This could lead to a potentially pleasurable experience, her brain-turned-mush thought lewdly. But that one thought was enough to shatter the insanity and bring her back with her feet on the ground.

 _No._

She harshly pushed him off her and with a mighty slap, brought him back to his senses.

The strike on his flesh startled him enough to let go of her and realize his position.

Quickly, Samara crawled away and put a safe enough distance between them. She wanted to be sure she wouldn't be tempted again by that crafty tongue of his.

They both panted harshly in the stillness of the abandoned house.

"What the hell is going on through your head right now?" Yesterday they argued and fought, not five minutes ago he gave her a massage which resulted in her trying to elbow him in the face and he just kisses her? She was reasonably at a loss.

"I…I don't know." He shook his head unable to look her in the eye. "You just tried to hit me and I…just lost it."

Samara made an astonished garbled sound in the back of her throat. "I'm betting you don't just kiss everyone that hits you."

The man said nothing as he raked his hair in frustration to his impulsiveness. His was the face of a man who knew he had stepped mistakenly.

"Shit, Daryl…" Samara stared heavily at him. She could still feel his lips on her which flustered her. "Just because I relented with that massage doesn't mean it was going to have a 'happy ending'."

"Forget it." He spoke between gritted teeth. "Spur of the moment."

"Well, have your moments with someone else." The Native tried to rub off the sensation of flames on her cheeks. "I really don't want to repeat this whole fiasco all over again. Despite appearance, I _don't_ like constantly being angry."

—To go through everything once again wasn't worth the effort of a few minutes of ecstasy.

A deafening silence reigned over them as Samara agonized over her loss of control. She abhorred such a feeling, letting go and just going with the flow was not an often occurrence. She calculated and planned with nothing left in fate's hands. This way she could maintain a level of sanity in this otherwise crazy world, but this man…Whenever it was about him, reason flew out the window.

"In spite of all the shit that's between us, you ever regret it?"

Samara found him watching her steadily, his previous uncertainty nowhere near in sight. Those blue eyes of his watched her determinedly and without falter.

What could she say? She enjoyed the sex _immensely_. Had felt like a suspension from their day to day lives of fear, anxiety and danger. But with it came other problems from the past that she couldn't ignore.

"Yes…and no."

She hated it but at the same time reveled in it. When everything piled up, it was good to have an outlet in whichever form it came, fists or sex.

"I _don't_."

Samara was startled by this.

He shrugged in response to her wide-eyed stare. "Knew what I was gettin' myself into. I would be an idiot not to. I had ideas how it could turn out which was the only reason I hesitated and almost didn't come to the gym. We ain't right, but I took that chance."

"Why?" Her voice was hoarse. "Knowing that at any moment we could turn on each other which we already did after no time at all."

"Because I _wanted_ to, that's all."

 _Such a simple answer…_

"Is that it?"

The pointed stare he gave her said that she should know better. " _If_ it was somethin' else would you wanna hear it?"

If it was, she would be running for the hills. That was exactly the kind of situation she wanted to avoid completely in this new world. Samara had no need for such emotional ties. They got you killed in the end.

"No."

Daryl took a deep breath as he seemed to come to terms with something. "Do you remember that talk we had before we voted on Randal?"

Samara frowned, uncertain of what he was referring to when it hit her—the olive branch.

"I wanna offer you that same thing. Will you take it this time? We _can't_ ignore each other. We've tried it before and it didn't work."

As much as Samara wanted to deny that, she couldn't. It would be like trying to ignore the elephant that suddenly walked in the room. Even with Grimes it didn't work all the times. Personal and emotional words had a way of seeping through the cracks every time they conversed, even for a short while. How then would it be with someone she had slept with?

Samara was sure that she wouldn't be able to keep her promise of apathy because sooner or later they'd cross paths once more, and fireworks that awed or burned would erupt. It would be stubbornly prolonging the inevitable.

"Instead of always fightin' and arguin' we could try to just work together. When he hunted that boar, we got along, didn't we? I just want that. For us to be able to live with the other quietly."

"It would be easier to pretend." She said tiredly, feeling her bones weight her down.

He shook his head, also appearing more worn out than ever. "It don't work that way with us."

Why, though? That Samara couldn't understand. It wasn't like they were two halves of the same coin or some other fortune cookie sweet and sagely phrase. They were just two contradictory people forced to share the same space by an unfortunate world event.

"Even though you know I'll leave. Again." She tried one last time to dissuade him.

"Yeah, even knowin' that." Daryl spoke softly. "I don't wanna part ways like we almost did yesterday. I don't need that in my life. I'd rather it go with no regrets."

If nothing else, just an amicable partnership until the end. Better than days or weeks spent in bitterness and anger.

Samara came to a decision.

She extended her hand to him and he clasped it.

* * *

 _ **Foot Note:**_ I swear these two break up and make up at least once a day. But will it last this time, though? Time and their tempers will tell.


	22. Cougar Fight

_**Author's Note:**_ Alrighty, now that the drama is done for the moment we're gonna go to more light-hearted matters (as much as it can be expected in a post-apocalypse). Too much drama can lead to becoming an evening soap opera, so I'm changing the pace a bit.

Also, Happy Easter to all! Forgot to say that on the last update.

* * *

The moment the sun peeked behind the horizon, both trackers were up and ready to depart.

They neared the forest line and would have continued had the hunter not paused. There was a faraway gaze to him as he stared at the shabby house, lost in whatever memory his mind conjured. Samara waited for him a short distance away. She had a vague idea of what it reminded him of, but decided not to ponder on it. There was a stale dejection in those pale irises, the same as the one she witnessed last night and Samara had more wish to know the actual reason.

The Native popped a piece of gum into her mouth and perused the area as a light fog settled around them. Icy cold dew still clung to grass, wetting her boots and making the leather squeak at each step. Somewhere in the distance, she heard twigs crack.

"Daryl."

They couldn't linger any longer. Whatever ghosts haunted him, he'd have to put them to rest for now.

The man blinked languidly as if waking up from a reverie.

"Come on."

He offered no explanation as he turned his back on the house and took the lead, an impassive mask over his face. Samara asked nothing of his behavior. It wasn't her business and neither did she attribute it too much interest. Her only goal for today was reaching the prison.

Like yesterday, their journey was spent mostly in silence, only this time there was no tension between them, but simple existence.

* * *

It was near noon when they caught sight of familiar grounds and soon, Daryl and Samara reached the abandoned railway. The prison hadn't changed during their short foray as it stood as imposing as ever with its inhabitants buzzing around.

"Home sweet home…" Samara sighed as she chewed on a blade of grass.

Their small, but perilous and thrilling adventure had come to an end. Once more they were brought with their feet on the ground—Daryl had his duties as Rick's right hand while Samara transitioned through life as smoothly as humanly possible. The bones and muscles keeping the woman upright almost groaned in relief at the knowledge that soon she'll be sleeping on a relatively soft bed.

Navigating through the bushes as they descended the small hill overlooking the prison, Daryl fused over himself.

"Do you have a scarf or somethin' in that backpack?" He asked with a slightly peeved voice.

"No. Why?"

"How the hell am I gonna explain this?" This being the teeth marks on his jaw.

Samara hid her smirk as she gazed at the purplish bruises. How glorifying she found the sight.

"Lady walker got frisky with you?" She advised coolly.

"You ain't funny." The man hissed, not even the slightest amused by her jest. "At least you can say you hit your head on somethin'. Did you really have to bite me?"

"I had a small moment of craziness. Don't blame me, blame the situation."

The man grunted, not entirely believing. Samara rolled her eyes and ducked to the ground to grab a fistful of dirt. Daryl watched puzzled as she rolled it around in her palms and to his complete stupefaction, the woman proceeded to smudge her dirtied hands all over his jaw and cheeks.

Daryl stood still as a statue with a vein gradually pulsating stronger on the side of his temple. He was going to kill her.

"There." The woman had no shame as she stared proudly at her work. "You can hide it for the time being."

If he headbutt her again, no one would dispute it, Daryl thought forebodingly.

The man growled under his breath as he walked away, every now and then scratching at his jaw from the sensation of tiny particles of earth clinging to his stubble.

As they reached the fence, nobody seemed to have noticed them as they worked on opening the gap.

"Am I gonna get a visit from Michonne soon?"

Samara's brows furrowed, not comprehending his words. What did Michonne have to do with anything?

"Just so I can be prepared not to strangle her." He explained after being met with silence. "She can be annoyin' when she wants answers."

"Yes, she can, but why are you asking me this."

Daryl gave her a pointed look as he held open the gap for Samara to cross through. "You tell her everythin', don't you? That's why she kept houndin' me about you."

 _What?_

The Native reached the other side, perplexed. As she held the fence open for Daryl it dawned on her worse than a cold bucket of water.

 _That sneaky fucking—_

A fire grew in her chest, one that left her dizzy for a moment. _So that's why…_

Samara's entire visage darkened ominously. She was going to tear that dreadlock sporting bitch a new hole!

Dirt and gravel crunched underneath their feet as they walked along the pathway. Only a few walkers were outside the fence and the racket they caused upon seeing fresh meat alerted the others of their presence.

Several shouts were heard and as people hurried towards them to open the gate.

"Daryl! Samara!"

"We're alright!"

Daryl called out as Rick and Carl were the first to reach the gate to open it. Once there were no more obstacles separating them, the men clasped hands like long-lost brothers.

"You got no idea how relieved I am to see both of you in one piece." His eyes shone like stars as he gazed at both of them, never mind that each sported a coat of dirt and blood. They were alive and that was enough.

"The same." Daryl's eyes fleeted about as he searched the prison's grounds. "Axel and Oscar, they made it back alright?"

"Yeah. Scared the hell out of us when we just saw the two of them." Carl said as tipped his hat in greeting. "We thought the worst."

"Oscar told us everythin' that happened." The sheriff's gaze then steered to the marshal, critical as if to ask if her mad actions had been really needed. "Almost sent out a party to find you."

Samara shrugged as she spat out the thoroughly chewed blade of grass. "We're here and in one piece. What do the means matter?"

The Kentucky native would have rolled his eyes at her nonchalance. She might not put too much stress on it, but for the people here at the prison simply waiting with bathed breath for their return had been nothing short of hell. There was always the possibility of waiting everlastingly for a memory.

Samara passed by them as more people joined the gathering, cheering at their safe arrival. She wanted to dispose her backpack and bow and finally relax. But in order for that to happen she had to patiently live through Glenn, Maggie and Dale's hugs and the numerous pats on the back.

 _Ugh…_

Andrea was the last to embrace her, giving her a tight squeezed before hitting her over the side of her head.

"You idiot!" Despite the austerity in her actions, there was only relief to be found in Andrea's eyes. "You just had to go and jump over a swarm of walkers like you're Rambo, didn't you?"

"I couldn't help myself." Samara said with a small smile. If there was one thing she liked, it was messing with the blonde. She was too easy to rile up.

"Don't be smug." The blonde chided. "It could've easily turned bad."

"But it didn't." Samara's good disposition all but dissipated as she spotted Michonne approaching them. She had no intention of talking to the woman at the moment. Her anger was still all too palpable and she wanted to avoid the beginnings of a possible brawl.

Patting the blonde's shoulder in reassurance she passed her by and kept her gaze straight. Michonne stopped halfway sensing a disturbance and when Samara simply brushed by, cold as an ice sculpture, she knew something was amiss.

The sword-wielder didn't follow, though, to Samara's greatest relief. She was exhausted and dirty and aching. She couldn't deal with Michonne right now.

Before stepping through the prison's door, Samara stared out into the distance. The others were now returning to the courtyard, all gathered around the hunter as if afraid that if they lose track of him he'll disappear into smoke. He really _was_ a part of them, Samara thought whimsically. An essential one that the Native didn't think would ever part willingly. His roots were deeply imbedded into the core of this group and anyone could see that from the happiness on the other's faces.

Inside their living quarters, Samara was met with Hershel with whom—after warm greetings—had a short chat about her troubles. The old man assured her that once she'd finished grooming he'll examine her back promptly.

Just a foot away from her cell and she would have been greeted to the mattress that she loved more in this moment than ever before, despite the fact that it was as hard as a rock, if only Oscar and Axel hadn't poked their heads from outside their cells.

Upon noticing her, a brilliant smile appeared on Axel's face momentarily bewildering the Native. The skinny man actually chatted excitedly on his relief that she was alive. Samara had no idea how to respond to this enthusiasm except for a strained smile that rivaled a grimace.

Oscar was more reserved as he stood with his arms crossed, staring at her expressionlessly.

"That was a crazy thing you did." The larger man said, his eyes apprising her calculatingly.

"Yeah, it was." She withstood his judgment with her chin held high.

There was a tense silence between them, both measuring each other, before the man's shoulders relaxed and his gaze lost the precarious edge. He nodded in gratitude. For coming back for him and for giving them the chance to get away.

Samara reciprocated the nod.

Needing no more words, Oscar returned to his cell and Axel gave the woman's shoulder a grateful squeeze before leaving to thank the hunter.

Alone and no longer deterred, Samara entered her cramped abode. Her empty backpack fell to the floor along with the quiver and bow as she lunged for the bed.

She fell prey to oblivion before even hitting the mattress.

* * *

Samara sat reclined against the pews as a baseball game unfolded before her. Carl, Axel, Oscar and Andrea were split into two teams, holding a friendly game.

The warmth of the afternoon sun felt good on Samara's skin as she lay basking in it. Her cowboy hat was placed over her face to keep the light from blinding her. Any other time she would have loved to join the game, but Hershel had benched her from any strenuous activities for at least a day.

Not that she was complaining. After her recent ordeal, a day or two lazing around didn't sound so bad.

The sounds of wood being struck felt so calming, reminding her of more innocent days. Her hand reached for the beaded necklace around her neck and fingered the large ivory teeth. How great it would be to be a child all over again. No worries, no sadness, no dark thoughts or memories burdening her waking mind. Just living in the moment and enjoying every bit of what life had to offer before adulthood caught up.

"Want to tell me why you're giving me the cold shoulder?"

Fingers harshly gripped the fang, stabbing the skin of her palm. She hadn't even heard anyone approach her, so absorbed in her memories she had been.

Samara tipped her hat and found Michonne sitting beside her, her eyes on the game. Like a ninja, she had sneaked up on her and was now calmly, but guardedly chatting her up.

"What did you say to him?"

"Who?"

"Daryl." Samara's words rang coldly. "He said you kept goading him about me. What the hell did you say to him? Did you fucking pimp me out?"

The woman gave her a long side glance, still as impassive as ever. "I did both of you a favor."

"Bullshit." Samara scoffed, her lips contorting. "You did yourself a favor."

She conceded. "Alright, I did and at the same time, I helped you with your problem."

"I didn't ask you to." Samara rose to a sitting position as she now openly glared. She hated the impassivity Michonne was treating this whole situation with. She wanted to rip it off her face. "I never came between you and Tyreese, not _once_." And she had reason, number one being the emotional baggage. "Who the hell do you think you are to mess around in my business? To what end?"

"You know _exactly_ why." A wrinkle appeared between her brows, signaling a fracture in her mask. "You two were going nowhere, circling around the subject like a pair of vultures. I just gave you a nudge."

Samara chuckled, but it was a forced one from behind gritted teeth and a bit lip. How she wanted to scream at this statue of a woman beside her. To tumble down the bleachers with her in a good old-fashioned brawl, but she couldn't.

"You know, if it weren't for them," She tipped hear head towards the players, oblivious to the hostile situation in the pews. "I would've punched you just now."

Michonne scoffed. "You do that and you'll fuck up that shit back of yours, _granny_."

 _Ah…_

She had to force her fingers to grip the edges of her hat instead of what she really wanted.

"Watch it, Michonne." Samara's eyes narrowed into hazardous slits as poison dripped from her fangs. "We both know I don't like being threatened."

"Spare me your chest pounding, Samara." Michonne was not impressed by the ominous words. She'd dealt with the marshal's anger before and managed to stay afloat. "If I hadn't intervened you'd still be in that restless limbo you boxed yourself in. You should thank me for releasing you from that."

… _Thank…her?_

With no regret, Samara did just that with a properly executed punch to the cheek.

Michonne had no time to avoid it and she fell to her side, grinding her teeth in pain. She could taste blood and cursed the day she ever introduced the marshal to the gym and, subsequently, to the punching bag.

Not one to back out, Michonne retaliated just as agile as she struck Samara in the stomach with a kick. The marshal bended over herself, clutching her abdomen as spit drooped from the corner of her mouth.

 _That hurt._

"What the hell are you two doin'?!"

Both women's heads snapped to the players now eyeing them in alarm. It seemed that they had finally caught their attention.

Olive clashed against coffee and both transmitted the same thing.

—The fight wasn't over.

Both lunged at each other, ending up in a lock as each vied for the upper hand. They didn't even care as they stumbled over the pews and down into the dirt, their focus solely on each other.

"Goddammit!" They heard Andrea curse as her boots hit the dirt with hastiness.

The men watched in wonder as the two women brawled like two sailors in a tavern while the blonde tried to separate them, shouting for a ceasefire.

"Is this what you call a 'cat fight'?" Carl scrunched his nose in vexation at the punching and kicking women.

Axel guffawed as he stared at the mini-Grimes. "Where you hear that?"

The boy shrugged.

"A cat fight is what you call girls fightin', _that_ is a cougar fight." Oscar explained before hissing as Andrea's failed attempts at stopping the two women resulted in a black-eye. "Much more entertainin'."

"Shouldn't we do somethin'?" Carl asked the two adults. He knew they should help Andrea, but for the life off him he couldn't seem to take his eyes off the entrancing scene.

Oscar shook his head casually. "This ain't our fight."

"They're gonna kill each other!" Carl looked on horrified as Samara climbed atop Michonne's back and caught her in a chokehold.

"They just might…" Oscar stroked his chin gravely as Michonne grabbed a handful of the marshal's hair and pulled ruthlessly before abruptly turning to Axel with a grin. "I'm bettin' a pack of cigarettes on Michonne."

"You're on. I'll go for the marshal." Axel stated confidently as Samara retaliated with a bite to the woman's offending arm. "They do know how to incapacitate people."

"Did you see those muscles samurai girl has?" Oscar whistled appreciatively as Michonne sent an elbow crashing into Samara's chest. "This is a no brainer."

"We'll see." Axel crossed his arms determined to win those cigarettes as Samara repeatedly battered the sword-wielder's ribs.

As the convict duo cheered and snickered, Carl was left dumbstruck as the adults acted more juvenile than him, who was by definition a child.

"Do I have to throw hot water on you two, goddamn?!" Having recovered from the earlier hit, Andrea used her belt to wind it around the marshal's neck and drag her away from Michonne with all her might.

Samara sputtered and gurgled as her oxygen intake was blocked and her fingers scratched at the leather material. Michonne, now on her hands and knees, coughed as her sore throat was finally free. Andrea slipped and fell into the dirt, panting as Samara dropped against her holding her bruised neck.

The fight concluded with no emerging winner. Except for the two men everyone else felt relieved. Other than some bruises and cuts, nothing grave had been inflicted and, despite their fatigue, both women still managed to glare ferociously at each other.

"Listen to me, you stubborn bitch." Michonne spat blood. "By pushing the both of you in the same direction, I made you confront your lying ass and open your damn eyes."

"You stepped over the line, Michonne." Samara grabbed a handful of dirt and threw it in her direction, never reaching as it dispersed in the air.

"If I didn't, you'd be in the same position as you were back then, fearing your own shadow and scuttling around like a rat." Michonne saw the Native flinch at the accurate accusation. "Anything was better than that. You were pitiable, brought to your knees by something so trivial."

"You think that your doings had me have some _grand_ revelation? A vision that will change my life entirely?" Fire was back in Samara's eyes, but this one was a duller and less sweltering. Almost dying. "No, Michonne. You just made me decide between having steak or salad at dinner. That's how significant that decision was. It didn't change _one_ goddamn thing."

Samara pushed away from Andrea's grip and limped away from the field, picking up her abandoned dusted hat along the way.

Andrea turned towards Michonne with a damning look. "Goddammit, Michonne. I warned you not to get involved."

Michonne glared as she spat some more blood.

* * *

Samara winced as Hershel prodded her back none too gently. He was displeased.

"I thought I told you yesterday to take it easy." The old man gave her this look that had 'grandfatherly disappointment' written all over it.

"Yeah, well." Samara sulked, chewing on her busted lip. "I have a habit of doing the exact opposite."

"I can see that."

The Native yelped this time as the vet pressured a rough spot. Despite his innocent countenance, Samara knew better. The old man was giving her a lecture like she was a small brat.

It couldn't have been helped. Samara really had tried to rein in her temper, but Michonne's deadpan responses had pissed her off beyond self-control. The fact that she had been absolutely unapologetic had been the cherry on top. Samara hadn't cared what her reason had been, she had no right to butt in her emotional affairs.

 _I bet she'd burst a vessel if I decided right now to come between her and Tyreese just for the shits and giggles._

"Shit!" Samara almost jumped off the hospice bed as what felt like high-powered volts shot up her spine.

"Got a big one here." Hershel mused as he prodded more gently.

"There has to be a better way to treat this." The Native grimaced at the bundle of knots being abused. "I can't keep relying on others."

Hershel hummed deep as he concentrated. "I think there might be a way for you to go about without havin' your back attended. The exercises are the crucial part, without them you're back to the old pain. The problem with the knots is because you keep hunchin' over and addin' strain to it whenever you get the need to get in a scuffle."

Samara huffed derisively. "So tying a pole to my back is the only way…"

Confusion arose on man's face.

"Nothing." She shook her head to dispel her depressive musings. "What do I need?"

"Well, there is a thing called a back brace—"

Samara grimaced. "That metal thing guys have strapped to their body's and neck's so they can't even look sideways without turning their full body? No fucking way am I wearing something like that."

"Nothin' that drastic. A simple corset would do and not the kind women used to wear two hundred years ago. I'm talkin' about a medical corset. There are such things for back pain."

"But?" She sensed a big hairy one.

"I think the only place we can find them is a hospital. Maybe an old folk's home if we're lucky."

That would be complicated. A hospital was guaranteed to be overcrowded with the undead and elderly hospices had already been a hotspot for the barely dead...It probably hadn't changed all that much.

The only question was—Was it worth the risk?

She was prepared to take that chance. It was either that or she started sneaking in pills.

The door to the ward opened and in came the former sheriff, grim faced as ever. He stopped in front of the marshal and appraised her critically.

"Do I wanna know?"

Samara shook her head. "That's between me and her."

"Well, that's almost two months without an incident." The man sighed as he raked his fingers through his hair. "I guess this means I gotta mark it on my calendar." He scoffed then. "Carl told me you two were havin' a 'cougar fight'."

She couldn't stop the bark of laughter. That was one way to put it.

"Is this over somethin' or someone?"

Her amusement died as internal panic seized her. "What do you mean _someone_?"

The man shifted uncomfortably. This was not an easy topic of discussion. "I know about Tyreese and her."

Samara scoffed instead. "We're not having a bitch fight over a man, Grimes. It's something Michonne shouldn't have done concerning a problem of mine."

He seemed to breathe in relief, but that sharp gaze of his never wavered. "Should I expect another brawl?"

Samara shook her head.

Expecting the sheriff to leave as the interrogation was over, yet instead he stared at her even more carefully, scrutinizing every inch of her face and Samara was just about ready to snap. Her temper was at an all time low right now and she had no patience to deal with guessing games.

"You need to talk about whatever it's botherin' you?" The man finally asked.

The pointed glare he received was his answer.

Rick sighed before turning on his heel. "I'll let you be then."

Once the door closed behind him, Samara breathed easily as the silence returned. Just her and the old man and the smell of chemicals and death. _Hurray…_

"I'm guessin' this problem had nothin' to do with that bite on Daryl's jaw?"

Samara stiffened.

She looked blankly at the old man who seemed oblivious to his 'innocent' remark.

 _Crafty old goat._

* * *

After her checkup, Samara rested for a few hours per doctors orders. It was evening now and in the distance, she spotted just the person she wanted to speak to.

The walk to the fences didn't take long and soon she joined up with the walker cleaning crew. The man in question lagged behind as he worked on closing a small gap while Maggie, Glenn and Sasha distracted the few walkers as far away from the construction.

Samara was on the other side of the double fence, dispassionately watching him braid cords. She hadn't seen hide or hair of him since last night's dinner. He seemed to be in good shape all things considered and Samara almost guffawed at the large neck scarf he sported around his neck and lower face, hiding his chin.

"Nice scarf."

Daryl fingers jumped on the wires before continuing on their course.

"What is it?"

Samara leaned against the chains. "What exactly did Michonne say to you about me?"

The man peeked behind his shoulder, perplexed, but answered nonetheless. "Nothin'. Just said some things I didn't wanna hear."

"Like?"

He doesn't say.

Samara tsked, wanting an answer. She needed to know if this thing between them happened because of one crazy woman's badgering.

"Did she push me on to you? Did she say anything about me to incite you? To make you decide to sleep with me?"

Now, Daryl openly glared. "Ain't no one that tells me what I should do, especially not when it comes to _that_. I made my own decisions and neither one got anythin' to do with Michonne. I ain't that easy to be controlled."

"Michonne is resourceful. She has a way of making people see her side when she really puts in some effort."

"Like you?"

Samara frowned, incensed.

"Don't feel good, does it? When you're the one bein' manipulated for once."

"Piss off." She hissed, feeling as if a nerve had been struck. "Let me tell you something, if it wasn't for her yapping in my ear, I don't think I would have _ever_ slept with you. I admit the thought was there, buried at the back of my mind, but I didn't want to consider the possibility of actually acting on it."

"Because I'm a redneck?" He anticipated her reason before she even had to think it.

"Yes, and because, like you, I anticipated a shitstorm after." She frowned deeply as her arms crossed. "Besides, there was bad blood between us."

The hunter shook his head as he returned back to his work. "Despite all the shit you did and said until now, I ain't never held a grudge against you and I had enough reason to."

"Maybe you didn't, but I sure as hell did."

He paused for a second. "Thought you left that behind."

"Old grudges die hard and the ones put to rest have a way of coming back to haunt." However frustrating and time-consuming they could be at times.

"Why she do it? You piss her off with somethin'?"

"It's not payback if that's what you're implying. Michonne doesn't hold onto resentment unless it's something big." And she did mean _big_. "No, it's because of our deal. I don't believe that bullshit of hers that she wanted me to open my eyes. She just wants to stall me from leaving or, possibly, change my mind entirely."

During those hours resting her bones, she had thought over the many reason Michonne would have attempted such a stupid thing. The woman's wasn't the type to mess around with business that didn't concern her personally, and this thing with Daryl didn't. But it affected Samara and that's where she found her answer.

"Why do you wanna leave so badly?"

Samara looked over the walkers rattling the chains with a sense of apathy. More of them appeared each day and soon, double duty would be needed to get rid of them lest they bring down the fences.

"There's nothing for me here."

She missed the minute pause on Daryl's part. Samara doesn't notice that her words had affected him to some extent.

"You have a roof over your head and a sense of security." The man turned peeved. "What else do you want? A fancy mansion with soft, goose-feathered beds?"

"That would be nice." She smirked as she imagined being treated to such luxury. "I can find a roof over my head anywhere I want. There are literally millions of empty houses strewn across the continent. As for security, don't think for a second you're safe here."

"We've lived here for four months now and we ain't dead yet. That's proof enough." He tied one last knot in the gap and tested it. It was sturdy enough. With a whistle, he announced his finished job. Now, the others could start killing them.

Daryl turned back to the marshal shrewdly. "Where are you goin' anyways?"

"Out of Georgia and I hope I never step foot here in a long time."

The man's eyes narrowed, lost in thought.

"Which state?"

Her gaze turned suspicious. Why did he want to know that?

"I don't know yet. Michonne has a place in mind, but I'm good anywhere really. I like drifting better than settling down. If nomadic tribes had thrived for hundreds of years then so can I. Hell, even my ancestors were semi-nomadic. I could learn a thing or two from them."

He scoffed derisively then, drawing the woman's attention. "Then why learn farmin' if you plan to stay on the road forever?"

"Not forever, just for the moment."

"Until when?"

"I don't know." She strained. He was being awfully chatty. "I guess the idea of stopping will come to me one day."

Daryl shook his head as he walked away to his work. She was talking crazy. There was nothing beyond these gates but death and isolation. What could she possibly crave so much out there that she didn't have here?

The urge to bite on his thumb was tempting as he now realized that her impending departure was very real and most likely very soon.

* * *

Night had settled a while back and Samara spent it in the gym, unable to stay still for another second more. She lightly practiced on the bag, mindful of straining herself. It also gave her a reason to be on her own without interruptions. Ever since her brave 'sacrifice' it seemed that people were now more content with her. They treated her more openly and amicably, especially Axel who sat with her during dinner to Samara's mild exasperation. How strange saving one's life could change one's perspective.

Samara wasn't exactly pleased with the attention, but she didn't dissuade it either. As long as it didn't interfere with her day to day life, she would let it be.

The infernal whine of the door's hinges signaled a late-night visitor and Samara's eyes flattened when she saw who it was.

"If that's a peace offering you can drink it yourself. I hate wine."

Michonne approached her with a bottle in hand, undeterred by the former marshal's discord. She took a seat on the bench press and indicated the spot next to her.

"Stop being so stubborn and sit down. We need to settle this."

"You want to settle?" Samara leered as she bumped her fists. "Then wrap your hands and let's go. And no low blows."

"You deserved it since you bit me. I still have the teeth marks on my arm. And I mean settling this like adults, not children at the school yard." She patted the seat more firmly. "Get here."

With reluctance, Samara approached and settled on the bench's edge, as far from the sword-wielder as possible. She was still angry with her and it was felt in the form of prickly tension. Michonne offered the bottle and Samara took a swing from it.

"Tastes like shit." She grimaced as she was almost tempted to spit it out. Red wine was the worst.

"You don't know what you're talking about. This is a 1990 Bordeaux. A good year and you can tell that from the taste."

Samara wiped the drops left on her chin. "Kind of fancy for a jock like you."

Michonne's brows rose snidely. "Because I like football and gyms, I can't be classy? I think that just applies to you."

Samara elbowed her lightly in the arm to which Michonne responded in the same manner. Both shot daggers to each other.

Michonne was the first to back off as she sighed in exasperation. She took the bottle out of Samara's hands and drank a healthy dose herself. Sometimes the two women would get into arguments, rarely into fights, but they never could remain truly upset with one another. The fact that they had lived with each other for so many months in confined spaces had rooted in them a deeper connection. One that couldn't be broken over a trivial matter.

"I'm not going to forgive you anytime soon for snooping in my business, Michonne. That wasn't right, not by a long shot." Samara laid her intentions clear as she chugged on the shitty wine.

"You were going nowhere, just chasing your own tail in endless circles."

Her eyes narrowed as she passed the bottle. "Are you calling me a dog, Michonne?"

"Well, there are times where you are as dumb as one." She ignored the irate growl in favor of the sweet delicacy. Michonne hadn't had wine in such a long time that it seemed almost cruel to drink it for anything other than a special occasion. She turned to Samara, a serious aura to her features. "Do you really think keeping yourself in denial wouldn't have some repercussions? You would've been like an erupting volcano, spewing lava everywhere making the villagers run for their lives. It would've been much worse. I just prevented that."

"I'm sure the villagers thank you for your humble service." The Native mocked.

Michonne rolled her eyes. Whichever way Samara wanted to spin it, her nudges had proven to be good in the end. The Native had returned to her normal, day-to-day moods, no trace of her earlier doubts.

"So what happened out there? Before leaving you two were like a powder keg ready to explode and now you're back to your old selves."

"I don't kiss and tell."

The sword-wielder smirked. She wasn't worried anymore for the woman next to her. Taking her bottle, she rose to her feet one hand firmly clasped on her companion's shoulder.

"Enjoy it, Samara, whatever it is. God knows that's the least we can have."

Samara watched her passively as she headed for the door, her posture no more rigid.

"End of April, Michonne."

The woman paused without looking back. A foreboding aura settled, stifling the two women.

"That's when _I'm_ leaving."

Samara didn't voice the words that stood on the tip of her tongue. Her silence rang much louder in the stillness of the room.

 _Stay or come, it's your choice._

The woman resumed her pace, leaving the marshal to the quiet of the gym once more.

* * *

 _ **Foot Note:**_ I actually had fun writing this chapter. That brawl just had me giggling all the way as I imagined the two grown-ass women fighting it out like teens. What goes around comes around, eh?


	23. Staying is Better Than Leaving, right?

**Author's Note:** Yo, thanks all for the reviews and likes. Me gusta.

Also, Daydreamer, happy to hear from you. I've been wondering why I haven't seen a sign of life from ya. Almost thought you moved on from the story (it happens, even to me), but I'm glad you're back on the wagon with us.

* * *

Twack.

Samara smiled as she watched the arrow hit the rabbit she had been chasing for the past ten minutes. This was the second woodland critter she caught in the span of one hour. Not bad for a city dweller.

"To think that two months ago you could barely hit a practice target."

The Native turned to her hunting companion, who seemed to be in awe with her skill. Andrea picked up the unfortunate animal and pulled the arrow out of its neck.

"I'm actually starting to enjoy it better than my guns." Samara said as she retuned the arrow to the quiver on her back. She settled with one hand on her hip as she displayed herself proudly. "Looks good on me, doesn't it?"

Andrea chuckled good-naturedly. "We'll make a proper 'brave' out of you yet."

The two women had been trekking through the forest for the past two hours. At first, Samara had wanted to go alone but Andrea insisted she accompany her. There seemed to be a demand to her request and Samara was curios as to the woman's reason. Although, considering that not a few days ago she had proclaimed her intent to Michonne, the Native was half expectant to broach that topic of discussion any minute now.

"You like it here at the prison, don't you?" Samara asked as they walked side by side, ever mindful of their surroundings.

"I'm just glad we managed to stay in one place more than just a couple of days. Despite it being a prison, I haven't had such deep slumbers in a long time. Hell, I even have _good_ dreams now. I'm no longer lookin' over my shoulder every moment of the day. No more freezin', dyin' of starvation or from lack of medical supplies." Andrea's tone alone gave Samara the answer. She was happy here. "I'm even more surprised how easy it is with the others, especially Dale. I can even call him a good friend now."

"And here I thought he was a pain in the ass for you."

"He used to be, but not anymore. He doesn't dog my every step which is a major improvement and I can talk to him without him overbearin' me with his grandfatherly affection."

Samara smirked as a thought slyly made its presence. "Are you sure he isn't putting the moves on you?"

Andrea's eyes widened before mild horror settled in, all the while opening and closing her mouth like a fish on dry land.

"I'm not even gonna respond to that."

The corner of Samara's mouth curved sharply. She couldn't just leave it like that. "He kind of looks like Santa Claus. Paint his hat red and I think he'll be _really_ happy for you to sit on his lap."

The blonde pursed her lips, indignant but still holding herself from laughing out loud.

"You're a real son of a bitch, you know that?" She suddenly cringed as she pinched the bridge of her nose. "Ah shit, now I can see it in my head."

Samara began laughing and soon the blonde joined her, unable to keep her amusement hidden. The laughter died down for Andrea first as she stared apathetically at the forest around them.

"Michonne told me that you're leavin' at the end of April."

Samara cleared her throat as the joy from just a moment ago disappeared so readily. It seemed Andrea was finally ready to talk.

"I told you from the beginning what my deal was. I'm not staying here, Andrea."

"Why?" Her pale brows furrowed in bewilderment. "We have everythin' we need here and don't you dare disagree."

"I admit, this is a good place to live in." Samara conceded. "With the fences, a garden, the small creek near the woods and the deer pen…you could probably have a few good years here if something doesn't change that."

"Then what's the problem?"Andrea stopped in her gait and faced her companion.

Samara did the same, but her eyes were distant and unwilling to brace the blonde's. "I don't…feel like I belong."

The change in expression was immediate. Andrea didn't believe her.

"What do you need to feel like you do?" She asked almost desperate. "Do you wanna be leader?"

Grimace. "When have I ever wanted to be in charge of anything? I'm not that gallant."

She wasn't Rick to be capable of handling so many people. To have so many lives depend on her for guidance and protection was nothing short of frightening.

"So, you just don't want the responsibility that stayin' here would give you."

Samara glared at the blonde's challenge.

A tired sigh came from Andrea as she watched the marshal with faint traces of melancholy.

"You know sooner or later, you're gonna get tired of runnin'. Tired of always bein' on the road with no end in sight, and when that happens, you'll realize that you don't have anyone or anywhere to call home." Her eyes hardened forebodingly. "You'll just be _alone_."

"I'm _not_ running." Samara gritted her teeth angrily. "And what's so wrong with that? When that happens I don't think I'll be much interested in anything since I'll probably be dead."

"Don't say that." Andrea rebuked her harshly. She _hated_ it when Samara got nihilistic, which was more often than she liked. "People like you, Michonne, Daryl got more chances of out-waitin' this virus than the majority of us do. I'm pretty sure you'll end up an old crazy lady livin' in a remote cave somewhere."

Samara huffed with a whimsical smirk at the image her mind conjured. The truth was that even the people Andrea listed could die at any given moment. They were not special, just more adapted. One day will come where not even their skills or experience could save them from Death's cold embrace.

Andrea fidgeted as a growing panic reflected deep within her eyes. The surrounding forest felt like it was closing in on her, stopping her from breathing. She wrapped her arms around herself as a sudden chill raked over her spine and pricked her skin.

"I…I can't go with you, Samara." Her voice trembled as buried memories of a harsh winter tormented her. "I can't be out here again. I'm not like you or Michonne, I need stability and people. I'll _die_ if I go on the road again."

Samara nodded slowly and calmly.

"I know." She smiled sadly. She had known for a long time. Instinct was a bitch to have sometimes.

Suddenly, Andrea caught the marshal in a tight hug. Recovering from her surprise, Samara wrapped her arms around the woman and squeezed her affectionately. The marshal wasn't exactly an affectionate or handsy person, but she almost always conceded when it came to the blonde.

They stood tangled like that in the cold spring morning, entirely focused on the person before them. They didn't have much time left, a blink of an eye, and then they would be separated for good. It was a heartbreaking feeling as if losing a part of yourself.

"I'm sorry." Andrea whispered and Samara grimaced at the crack in her voice. She didn't want this woman to be saddened. She wanted the blonde to prosper.

"Don't be." Samara smiled as she disentangled from the blonde and squeezed her shoulder warmly. "We all have to make our own way. If you believe staying with the others is the right path for you then do it."

"Do you really think the right path for you is out here?" Andrea asked softly.

Samara's smile strained.

"Only one way to find out."

* * *

Fingers glided over smooth fabric.

Samara gazed at each piece of expensive clothing with disinterest. In her previous life she couldn't have ever afford a dress so pricey, but now its value was less than actual money.

How strange...She'd remember women fawning over things like shoes, dresses, purses and now those same women, if they were still alive, wouldn't bat an eyelash a second time. How priorities change in the face of impending doom. In the end, the things that cost the most in civilized society, that men and women alike saved up years and years to buy or sacrificed their health and family over work, were in fact the least useful or important. So many things amounted to nothing in the end.

 _People…_

Were they worth it?

Samara sneaked a peek at her scavenging companion. Glenn was a good person, sometimes too nice to the point of being easy to manipulate, but better than most. Better than her in some ways and weaker in others. Is someone like that worth staying for? The Native was at an impasse. She _did_ want to leave, but as Andrea put it—was it the right thing to do?

Right. Wrong. No such thing existed anymore.

Was it the right path for her?

 _Who knows._

She couldn't predict the future. Perhaps Samara was going to her salvation…or to her death. Would that be so awful? To be free of this ugly, twisted world they lived in right now? There was no future in sight. Samara wasn't going to be blind and believe that the world will right itself any day now or that they could build a peaceful haven here at the prison. At one point, this dream will collapse and disappointment will settle back in. Samara wouldn't be, though. You can't disappoint a person who already expects it.

Samara shook her head, to dispel the growing gloom. Thoughts like these have had an increasing frequency these past couple of months. Perhaps it was her exhaustion thinking such morbid words or perhaps it was some deeper wish that she buried. Either way, the Native had no wish to dig further.

"Samara, you were married, right?"

Blink.

Her attention turned to the Korean as he watched her eagerly for a response.

"Yes, why?"

He shifted on his feet, suddenly uncomfortable. "What kind of ring do you choose for proposals?"

Samara's brows almost lost themselves in her hairline.

"You want to marry Maggie?" She stared wide-eyed, her voice rising a few octaves.

"Not so loud!" He whispered harshly. Their companions were not too far away and he feared being overheard. "I haven't told anyone yet. Yeah, I want to officially make her Mrs. Glenn Rhee."

Something inside the Native cracked and laughed maniacally.

"You know marriages and things like that don't really matter anymore, right?" She smirked sardonically.

Glenn frowned. "It matters to me."

The Native's smirk wavered as her fingers absentmindedly fingered the golden band on her hand.

"You really love her, don't you?" Samara asked thoughtfully.

A warm, gentle smile graced the younger man's face as just the thought of his girl had him radiant equal to the sun. "I don't know what I'd do without her. She's my one true reason for getting up in the morning. The reason I can look at all this and still think we can make it." His gaze then froze, determination steeling it. "I know that even if we ever got separated, we'll always find each other in the end."

Tiny knots twisted and turned in her stomach, torturing Samara with each word spoken before taking a nose-dive with that last sentence. Forgotten memories rose and clogged her throat that tasted of a certain desperation to reach a certain city and a certain man stuck there.

Her fingers clenched into fists as anger reared its head.

 _Stupid boy. Why the hell would you say something so naïve and foolish? You don't know a goddamn thing how life works. Find her if you get separated? Pfft! What a joke. If you're lucky and if this world has an ounce of mercy for you, you will never have to face the day of watching the one you love die right before your very eyes. It's better if they remain lost to you, uncertain of their fate, this way you won't have to suffer for too long. You could just delude yourself into thinking that they lived somewhere out of your reach. Or if you're strong, think that they died a peaceful death and move on._

But of course, Samara voiced not a single word of her thoughts, instead opting to keep a straight face.

"There's a jewelry store a few shops down." Samara advised him. If he wanted to doom himself, then he could go right ahead. It wasn't her life.

"Yeah…that's where I was hoping you could help me." He scratched the back of his head embarrassed. "Can't you choose one? I mean I don't know what kind of ring women like."

She shook her head. "This is something you have to do on your own. That ring symbolizes _your_ love. There shouldn't be any outside influences." Or at least that's how she thought it should be like. In truth, Samara wanted to take no part in this endeavor. It rattled the chains on tightly locked emotions. "Don't worry. When you see it, you'll know."

Glenn seemed disappointed by the lack of support and anxiously gazed at the entrance of the store. "Could you at least come with me? There might be walkers inside."

Samara sighed deeply. If she refused again, the Korean would probably just find another excuse for her to accompany him.

"Hey, Grimes." The man in question turned towards her shout. "We're gonna check the shops a bit further. Be back in ten."

Rick nodded and returned to his work as Glenn and Samara checked the jewelry shop. The interior was more or less untouched, surprisingly. Samara would have thought that in the beginning of the outbreak, some people would take that distraction as a chance to start stealing.

"There's so many of them." Glenn whispered in awe as he watched the many glittering baubles in their cases. "I seriously have no idea what to pick."

"My husband told me that it took him weeks for him to finally choose the right ring." Her eyes finally acknowledged the piece of gold on her finger.

"I don't really have a few weeks. It has to be now."

"Well, you have ten minutes to decide." Samara said strictly. She wouldn't remain in this shop for one minute longer. "Use them."

As she gazed at the remnants of her past self, Samara was flooded with questions she had exhausted herself with times before. Did he suffer? Was his death quick? Did he really die or was that just the way her mind defended itself from breaking down? Was he still alive somewhere out there? Was he looking for her—

 _No, no. That's impossible. He's dead. Be reasonable._

Samara features contorted into something ghastly as her thoughts stirred up her insecurities. Her breath lengthened as she tried to rein in her spiraling self-control.

Why did she still wear the ring?

Samara paused.

Indeed… Why did she?

This piece of jewelry had the same meaning as the frock she found earlier—useless and with no value. This ring was proof of days long dead and other than a constant reminder of them, it did nothing to help. In fact, it did the opposite. Like her necklace, it was a relic that she wore out of habit and not out of sentimental value.

Then why not just throw it away?

That thought alone had her insides churn unpleasantly.

Is this what her husband and father had been reduced to? Nothing but objects and not people? No, they still held a dear place in her heart, it was just that…

Samara pushed her sunglasses away and massaged the bridge of her nose. Michonne had been right, her past was fighting with the present and Samara was stuck right in the middle, getting tugged both ways. She wondered how long would it take until she finally snapped. It hadn't been a recent thing. Samara had been reminiscenting since the outbreak began, clinging onto memories when the world became too bleak and the road stretched on for too long.

Her eyes returned to the Korean searching through the pretty stones with envious eyes. How was it so easy for others to just move on and not for her? Parents, siblings, spouses, children. Every one of them had lost something precious along the way, but she didn't see them wallowing in pity. Even Carol, who had had every right to just crawl into a ball and wither away, moved on from the tragedy that befell her.

Why couldn't they just suffer as well?

"Found it!"

Glenn held a ring high up with a victorious look on his face.

"It's almost the same color as her eyes."

Samara inspected it with relative interest. It was a silver ring with an emerald stone in the center. The cut was surrounded by intricate silver petals and leaves, giving it a fantastical edge.

"It's beautiful."

Glenn nodded enthusiastically, but his mood soured as he gazed behind him with slight unease.

"I should keep the part _where_ I got it from out, shouldn't I?"

Considering that the ring belonged to a woman, half mummified and sprawled on the floor behind the counter, Samara was of the same mind.

"Depends." The Native mused. "How do you think she'd react to that piece of information?"

Pause.

"Yeah…Maggie doesn't need to know." Glenn pocketed the ring with a nervous smile.

"So, when are you going to ask her?" Samara asked as they left the store.

"Tonight, but I have to get Hershel's permission first."

Samara chuckled despite the downturn mood she was in. "That's a bit old-fashioned."

"I want to do it right." The young man nodded appreciatively at his companion. "Thanks, Samara."

She waved off his gratitude. She didn't do anything beside stand and wait for him to chose, but perhaps that was all he needed. A little support.

Even as Glenn all but skipped in happiness, Samara just couldn't stop feeling the weight of her own ring dragging her down.

* * *

After helping Glenn, Samara had split ways with him and tried to distract her clouded mind by losing herself in scavenging. The place they had chosen was a small shopping center in Newnan. Initially, they had come here with the intention of finding baby clothes and a crib among their daily necessities, but Samara left that job to the supposed father. She had no intention of 'shopping' for baby articles.

"Hey."

Samara turned towards her visitor in the shape of Sasha. The young woman seemed out of place as she stood there, facing the marshal with a troubled frown.

"Hey." Samara returned the same empty greeting.

Silence.

Samara lost patience by the second as Sasha seemed torn between speaking and keeping her mouth shut. The Native couldn't blame her, the two of them didn't speak all that much and as such had no real connection.

"Damn, I thought this would be weird, but not this much." The woman muttered under her breath as she massaged the wrinkles off her brow. "Look, I know we don't really talk, but I want to ask you something."

"It seems everybody is doing that today..."

Sasha looked at her in confusion to which Samara just waved it off.

"What do you want?"

"Michonne." She spoke resolutely, her earlier discomfort disappearing entirely. "I need to know _who_ she is."

"Why don't you ask her that?"

"I _did_. She just fed me some shallow facts about her, nothing that says anything about her character. I tried to press her, but she just clammed up. I went to Andrea after, but she pretty much said that she doesn't gossip." Her arms tensed as they crossed, a wary look contorting her features. "Something is very _wrong_ with that woman, but Tyreese won't believe me."

"Michonne's usually guarded with people. Trust is a commodity that she has a hard time grasping. Give her some time and she'll eventually warm up to you."

 _Heh…a whole lot of time._

"To be frank, I don't really want to be around her because she unnerves the hell out of me. I really don't know how my brother can stand her. There are times where I don't know if I'm talking to a human being or a statue, and sometimes, I get this feeling that I shouldn't take my eyes off her, just in case she tries to use that blade on me."

Oh, how that stirred up memories. Not long ago she had been in the same place as Sasha, constantly monitoring and appraising Michonne's every last move. But in the end, it had all turned out better than she had ever imagined.

"She's not the bogeyman, Sasha. She's not going to leap out from the dark and pull you under the bed because you don't like her. Also, I'm pretty sure Michonne doesn't care if you do or don't."

That woman reached a level of 'not giving a fuck' that Samara only dreamed of and tried to imitate.

"And _that_ is what concerns me." Worry had the girl tighten her grip on her arms. "That means she probably doesn't give a damn about my brother either."

Samara shrugged. It was a possibility. "That's neither my or your problem."

Sasha gave her a fiery glower. "He's my brother, so that means it's _my_ problem also."

"And Michonne's my friend, but you don't see me preaching to her. What they have between them is their business. I tend to not get mixed up in other people's love lives unless they _want_ to be heard." A concept Michonne had no understanding of.

"I think my brother _loves_ her."

Samara's gaze sharpened.

"He shouldn't." The young woman's voice wavered as she stared at something unseen to Samara with horror. "Love will get him killed. Even sooner now than before."

Samara agreed with her view. _A practical girl._

"Most likely."

Sasha glared to which Samara shrugged again.

"From a primordial perspective, men are hardwired to protect what belongs to them and that includes their women. They would go as far as throw themselves in front of a bullet so their woman wouldn't be the one dying." That's what love did. "From what I've seen of your brother so far, he's just that type."

Sasha scoffed, not amused. "He always liked being the hero, the gentleman. Any woman's dream. Too bad he wasn't exactly good at holding onto _good_ women, the bad ones kept snatching him away."

Samara smirked at the unsaid implication.

"Michonne's not a bad person and she didn't snatch anyone away, at least not Tyreese." As for other men, she wouldn't know.

"I want to know if I can trust her not to break my brother's heart. He's a dumbass when it comes to women and he can be _easily_ swayed by them. I just don't want him losing his head over this and get himself killed."

Samara understood her plight. Who wouldn't want to be sure that their last remaining family was safe? Especially in times where trust was not so easily obtained.

"Michonne's had my back many times and we've gotten through thick and thin together. She practically single-handedly brought Andrea back from the brink of death. I trust her." Despite how they bickered and sometimes fought, Samara could always stake her life of that sneaky, dreadlock samurai. "I know you probably don't trust me either, but give her a chance. Try to look past that stone wall of hers. There _is_ genuine warmth there."

 _You just have to be patient._

Sasha said nothing as she stared at the marshal with doubt. There was nothing more she could tell the younger woman. Samara couldn't force her to start trusting Michonne and wouldn't even if she could. That was something she had to realize herself.

As Sasha walked away, the Native was reminded of a similar situation involving her and the former Kentucky sheriff, where he had asked her to open herself up to the possibility of trusting Dixon.

Samara huffed as her features soured.

 _Love, huh?_

If Tyreese really did love her, then…where did that leave Michonne?

* * *

Daryl had broken ways a bit from Rick as they looked over some cradles and baby car seats. All that baby stuff left him feeling uncomfortable. He had no idea what to look for, so he didn't think he was of much help to his friend.

Pacing across the mall's corridors, he window shopped with mild interest. He'd never once stepped foot in a mall back in the old days. He and his brother had never seen the reason to since what they liked couldn't be found in shops for the everyday civilian. And he had been right judging from what he saw, except—

He stopped as his eyes landed on a mannequin dressed in provoking lingerie. To his utter mortification, his mind instantly jumped to _her_ and how that cheeky piece of clothing would look on—

"Not really your color."

Daryl froze as Rick's reflection appeared in the window, watching him bemusedly.

"Funny." The hunter grunted, feeling the opposite.

Rick grinned for a second before furrowing his brow in thought.

"You alright, Daryl? You've been kinda distracted these past few days. Got somethin' on your mind?"

It was amazing and slightly disturbing how easy Grimes would pick on the slightest of disturbances, Daryl thought. Almost like a witching rod finding water.

"Got a lot of things."

The man nodded slowly. "I understand if you don't want to talk."

Any other time with any other person, he wouldn't have. Daryl was not in the habit of talking about his problems, but this here was the man that could potentially shed some light on them or maybe even help.

"Samara's leavin' soon." The hunter said without making eye contact.

"She say that?"

Daryl nodded.

A sigh broke the silence and Daryl was almost sure he heard faint traces of disappointment.

"There's nothin' to be done, Daryl. I couldn't stop her back at the farm and I sure as hell ain't gonna succeed now. She'll be fine out there. She always is."

It was the hunter's turn to frown. "Have you even tried?"

"No, because I know her too well. Whatever I say will go through one ear and out the other. She won't listen to me."

 _Not anymore_ , was what Daryl heard that was left unspoken.

"What if Andrea and Michonne don't leave with her?" Daryl gritted his teeth in aggravation. Out of all people, he had thought that Rick would at least try to dissuade her. He was always the one that held more attachment to the woman than anyone else, save the dog. "She'll be on her own."

The gaze that Rick threw at him had Daryl still. It was different and yet familiar. Like that moment where they had found the prison and newfound determination bloomed within him. A sure-fire emotion that knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that they would succeed in taking the prison.

"I trust her not to die."

And he meant it.

And yet…Daryl couldn't share his resolution.

"Do you really want to see her go past those gates?" He challenged the Kentucky man. "Because I have this feelin' that if she does, we ain't ever seein' her again."

And that had been gnawing at him for the past two days. That ugly feeling, similar to seeing her die back at the farm, had left him with a bitter taste in his mouth.

"Of course I don't." Rick rebuked, the slightest hint of irritation on his brow. "I don't want neither her of Michonne or Andrea to leave. They're strong and we need their capabilities and despite everythin' I still think of her and Andrea as friends and I'm startin' to trust Michonne as well, but I will _not_ hold them against their will. I'm really not lookin' forward to it, but it's an inevitable fact." The man breathed wearily, feeling suddenly drained. "Is this what's been eatin' at you?"

Daryl gritted his teeth as he reined in his growing temper. If even Rick wasn't about to do anything then what chances were there anymore?

"I just don't wanna see someone else we know die."

"Have some trust, Daryl. Samara is by far helpless and she always bounces back from whatever situation she's in." A smile, one meant to reassure but for the life of him Daryl couldn't feel it. "She'll be alright."

"Why do you have so much faith in her?" At this point, the hunter was angry and he didn't care that Rick could see it. "You two ain't never been of the same thought. Hell, you're practically North and South in thinkin' and actin'. So, why do you trust her so much?"

"Because she needs someone to."

That halted the man's growing ire.

"I guess it's a _feelin'_. Like I had about you." Rick's gaze was unwavering. "For whatever reason, that woman has had my back when I truly needed it, despite repeatedly denyin' that she would. She had her reasons to and I know I gave her some, yet she never faltered. Just like I never did with her. We might not think the same, but our goals sometimes match and that's enough. If she decides in the end to leave, then I'll escort her out of the fences myself, but I _know_ that one day we'll meet again. It's just how it is."

Daryl's shoulders slumped. What could he possibly say after that? Unlike Rick, he didn't have that unshakable trust. He couldn't just dust off that feeling that the marshal would die out there and yet…he wasn't even trying to change her mind. If he did, Daryl knew he wouldn't succeed. She would just rebuke his effort, attributing it to his delusions about her.

But that tiny whisper at the back of his mind that said maybe he could. _That_ scared him infinitely more. Because he had no idea what could happen next.

Daryl turned on his feet and left. He needed to clear his mind.

What the hunter missed were the pair of blue eyes watching his back intently.

* * *

The spoon swirled lazily through the vegetable soup.

Samara stared at the contents of her dinner with no appetite. After her heavy thoughts just a few hours ago that still plagued her, she wasn't in the mood to eat. The more she stared into the amber colored liquid, the more she wanted to drown in it just to escape this void that was growing inside her heart.

Even now, the constant reminder on her finger had her grimace each time she caught sight of it. It reminded her of everything—cutting off her heart to John so swiftly and mercilessly, sleeping with Daryl not even a year after John's death and even the mere thought of taking the ring off had her insides turn outwards. Samara felt like that tiny piece of gold belittled and shamed her for trying to move on. She knew it wasn't John's fault, it was hers. There was still that part of her that wasn't willing to let go of the past entirely and it was tearing her apart.

"Guys."

Samara, as did everyone in the mess-hall, turned their attention towards Glenn and Maggie who stood up. The marshal wanted to vomit at the joy radiating off of them.

 _Fools._

"We have something to tell you." Glenn couldn't help but beam proudly at the love of his life. "I asked Maggie to marry me and she said yes. So, we're getting married."

It took a few seconds for the news to sink in, but when it did everyone smiled and cheered and applauded. People congratulated the newly engaged couple and hugged them tightly. For something like this to happen had caught them off guard. Who else would marry in this day and age?

"When's the wedding?" Lori asked as she disentangled from Maggie, a genuine smile reaching her face. Most of the women, except for Samara and Michonne, were gathered around the bride to be.

"Tomorrow, actually." Maggie said, face flushed. "We don't want to make anythin' big out of it. It's just going to be a brief ceremony here in the mess hall. My daddy's going to wed us and you're all invited, of course."

"You're gonna need a dress."

Maggie's face turned ten times redder as the thought mortified her. "No, it ain't gonna be anythin' fancy."

"Oh, hush." The pregnant woman waved her bashful self off. "A girl barely gets married these days. Make it count, trust me."

"I don't have a dress."

"I think I do." Beth said as she suddenly remembered something. "I need to check my bags."

On the other side, the men congratulated the groom. Daryl strongly patted Glenn on the back, enough to shake his whole body, before putting him in a friendly chokehold.

"Finally gonna make Maggie an honest woman, huh?" The man smiled, ruffling up the younger ones hair. "Took you long enough."

Free of his grasp, Glenn's cheeks turned beet red as he scratched the back of his head. "I think she's the one making the honest man out of me."

"I bet." Rick said as he clasped hands with the Korean. "Congratulations."

As everyone felt the euphoria of the news settle in their bones, there was one person who stood at the back, watching this joyous display with barely concealed contempt.

 _Kill me now._


	24. Wedding Fever

The trek through the forest proved to be as still as the vegetation around them. Daryl and Samara were heading towards the cage to check up on their catch (or lack thereof). Samara wasn't herself today as she gazed with disinterest at her surroundings, not even trying to shoot the occasional small animal with her bow. Daryl hadn't been ignorant of her somewhat sour mood, curiosity getting the better of him.

"You gonna wear a dress?"

Apathetically, Samara stared at the hunter's back. The need to answer wasn't that strong, but she forced herself to. At least it would prove a distraction from her burdens.

"Dresses aren't really my style. Besides, my arms are a bit too muscular now. I'd look like a tranny." Her brows shot in question. "Are _you_ going to wear a suit?"

He snorted.

 _Thought so._

"You ever tried a suit at least?"

"No."

"Then how do you know?"

"I just do."

 _Right…_

Gazing through the hunter, Samara tried to envision what kind of wedding will take place in just a few hours at noon. A sappy one that will leave the father and sister of the bride in tears, no doubt.

Samara grimaced. Why the hell were they going through this? Couldn't they just be content with having each other without the title of husband and wife? What was so good about it anyway? Samara knew one thing—she'll never get married again. Even if her soul mate were to appear right before her, she'd rather die than put another ring on her finger. One was too many already.

Her eyes regained focus on the man in front. It was almost bizarre how easily they stepped back into a normal pattern. Almost felt like the past two weeks hadn't happened. That night now felt like a distant memory for Samara and she no longer felt that impulsive need to 'jump his bones'. The attraction was still there, but she now viewed it more like a spectator. It was nice and casual to gaze upon, but not enough to act on.

At least one problem solved itself, Samara thought in relief. Even though that night had a habit of invading her dreams, she was glad to have gotten over it. Acting like a schoolgirl with a crush didn't suit someone like her and neither him.

Daryl seemed to be taking it in stride. She hadn't caught him trying to sneak a glance which was an improvement, nor did he try to touch or even be near her. He seemed to be himself once again. Perhaps, like her, he had decided to leave their rendezvous and everything following it in the past and concentrate on new beginnings.

Samara cracked a sardonic smile. Perhaps they could actually become friends by the end.

"Light blue."

The man turned his head to the side, confusion written on it. "What?"

"I'm trying to imagine you in a suit." Her grin widened as a thoughtful look took over. "Pastel blue for the shirt, it would match your eyes, and the jacket and pants should be dark in color. Maybe a light black. And a tie, definitely a tie. Bowties don't fit."

His irate frown conveyed his thoughts.

"I'd look like a monkey with clothes."

Samara snickered. "Suits can never go wrong on men. No matter _who_ they are."

The hunter scoffed as he returned his attention to the forest path. "You wear a dress, I'll wear a suit."

Samara mused whimsically. "I guess neither of us will get what they want."

They arrived at the location and just as before, there was nothing to be found. The bait hadn't been touched and there were no tracks.

"Nothin's been in this area since I came here last time." Daryl growled in frustration. "They should have been grazin' here."

"Maybe they got scared off." Samara offered as she touched the cage. She wasn't disappointed, simply expectant of this result.

"Then we gotta find a different feedin' ground." Daryl paused in thought. "Fuck it, we're movin' the cage again."

His companion sighed warily. "I'm starting to think this deer hunt is more of a treasure hunt than anything."

Daryl frowned at hearing her defeat. "I ain't givin' up. I know they're here, we've seen 'em. It just has to be the right time."

"It's been a month and we haven't caught anything expect for a walker." Samara gave him a pointed look. If something didn't work then he shouldn't force it. It'll just leave him frustrated. "Maybe you should try looking towards farms. There has to be some domesticated animals that are still lingering near them."

"No. It's gotta be deer."

 _Stubborn oaf._

Samara rolled her eyes as she helped the man dismantle the cage. They wouldn't move it today, just find the deer. They had a wedding to attend after all.

"I can't believe they're getting married." Samara made a face as she envisioned a slapdash ceremony in the mess hall. "It's not even _real_."

"Cause there ain't no priest? Don't need one to get hitched."

"No, not that. It's just…" Samara clicked her tongue as she tried to find the least offensive word. "Unnecessary _,_ in this day and age."

Daryl shrugged, unperturbed. "If that's what they want, why's it a bother to you? You ain't them and it don't affect you."

She only wished her heart would think the same.

* * *

Samara watched from the edges of the group as the soon-to-be married couple stood facing each other while the bride's father opened his Holy Book for the traditional chant.

Why was she here? Samara could easily slip away and just return when it was all over. This was just pure torture or sadism…or most likely both.

She felt like drinking. A nice, balmy drunken state would make all this go by so much smoother and faster. Unfortunately, they had very little alcohol and most of it was wine, which of course, Samara hated. Maybe she should have volunteered for guard duty instead. At least that gave her an excuse to be absent, but Lori had insisted that they all be here for the occasion. Why, of all people, _she_ put so much focus on this event was beyond the Native's understanding, considering how her own marriage ended. Perhaps she just wanted a taste of something youthful and forgotten.

Samara was of the exact opposite. She could do without this _joyous_ occasion. It didn't bring a warm, fuzzy feeling in her belly, just a growing pain in her chest and anxious nausea.

Unconsciously, her eyes trailed down to the source of her suffering. That golden band on her finger left her in dread instead of happiness. The Native felt like she had been cheated by fate. How did something that used to bring her a special kind of serenity and content love take such a downturn?

Samara sighed as her depressing thoughts were interrupted by Hershel's throat clearing. The ceremony was about to begin.

"If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels but have not love I am only a resoundin' gong or a clangin' cymbal." Hershel recited the marital vows with clear, strong words, but the unmistakable happiness in them couldn't be hid. "If I have the gist of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but have not love, I am nothin'. If I give all I possess to the poor and surrender my body to the flames, but gain nothin'."

The Native crossed her arms as she listened. More or less, these were the exact same words used at her own wedding. It hadn't been anything fancy, just a brief ceremony with close friends and family. Both she and John had been too 'old' for the vibrant energy of a young couple's wedding. They had just wanted to tie the knot and be done with it…or, at least, Samara did. Now that she thought about it, John had wanted something more lavish and sparkling while Samara had outright refused and no amount of convincing could have coerced her. The prospect of a huge white wedding with doves and rice and whatever else people did had been utterly _mortifying_ for someone that hadn't grown up fantasizing of such things. In the end, John conceded and let his bride have her way, but in exchange he got to treat both of them with an expensive honeymoon in India. A waste of money in her opinion, but she met him halfway more out of obligation than want.

"Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seekin', it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil, but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres."

 _Heh…That's a laugh._

Love is all those things and more. She hated it when people tried to romanticize it like it was some spotless, 'do no wrong' saint. Rarely was it so beautiful that you would remain in awe. The intense feeling usually passed after a while and you were left with the after effect which was a habit.

Is that what happened with her and John? He became just a habitual feeling she carried around? Before the virus broke out, she had contemplated divorce. She had gradually grown distant from him in the past year and a half and despite his efforts of reconciliation, Samara hadn't been able to hold that spark. That one _event_ in their lives had snuffed it for her and left her hollow. The many months it had taken to drag herself out of her slump had all but killed her affectionate nature, but she stayed because that loving habit was still present and her stubborn nature wouldn't allow her to quit at the first sign of trouble.

"These two have prepared their own vows." Hershel finished as he let the young couple take over.

"Maggie, my love, I promise to protect you and honor you and keep you safe." Glenn beamed proudly at his lady as he recited his vows, not once stammering or fidgeting as it was in his character. He had never been more confident than in this moment. "And I vow to love you for as long as I have left and to do everything in my power to ensure that is a long time."

"Today, a day of love and celebration of love, I pledge to share my life with you." Maggie's southern lilt had never been lovelier than today. A true Southern Belle. "Whether the days to come are happy or sad. I will live them with you. Glenn, I give you myself to you as your wife."

But as the months passed on, it became increasingly difficult to communicate with John. From sadness grew anger and the only way Samara knew how to deal with anger was to lash out and John had been the perfect target. Even to this day Samara never understood how he had been able to withstand her sharp and cruel tongue without once trying to leave her. Perhaps in some self-destructive way, that had been her goal from the beginning. For him to leave first because she didn't want to break his heart so cruelly, not after everything. He deserved someone better who wasn't so jaded and cynical with life.

"Maggie, do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband to have and to hold, to honor and cherish 'til death do you part?" Hershel peered at his daughter's happiness with glowing pride.

"I do." She beamed excitedly with tiny pearls clinging onto her lashes.

Samara fingered the golden band as she felt like crying except all the tears she had all but dried up. A strange sensation, as if ghost droplets trickled down her cheeks. That last time she saw John, she had uttered some harsh words. Words that she will never be able to take back or apologize for. Her last encounter with that man had been dipped in her cruelty and Samara wanted to hide in shame and grief. She wished she knew what he had thought in his last moments before dying. Did he think of her? Did he wonder if she was alive and well? Or if she was coming to save him?

–Did he still love her despite everything?

"Glenn, do you take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife to have and to hold, to honor and to cherish 'til death do you part?"

"I do." Glenn wasn't in any better shape as his eyes took on a red tinge.

 _Oh Gods…I'm going to throw up._

Samara palmed her mouth as she dry heaved. That churning sensation in her stomach burned hotly. It wanted to devour and spit her back out a gnarled mess.

This despairing sensation was familiar. The same thing happened every time she came home from deployment, only to different degrees. Survivor's guilt, one mandatory psychologist called it.

"Then by the powers vested in me by the unusual circumstances of our lives and the good Lord above—I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride."

A raucous of applause and cheers resounded. Samara remained hunched over herself, forgotten, as she tried to regain her bearings. She couldn't break down now. This wasn't about her, but a happier event. Straightening her back and plastering a painfully fake smile, she robotically clapped along. She hoped to the Gods that nobody looked her way because she wouldn't be able to keep this pretense for long.

As soon as the people in mess hall began drinking and eating in celebration, Samara slipped away unnoticed. There was too much joy in the air, making her claustrophobic. There were no worries, only people behaving normally for once. No fear of walkers or death or starvation. Just people that cared for each other—a family. Even a recluse like Michonne cracked a smile as she affectionately played with Tyreese's hand underneath the table.

—It was all just too much for the former marshal to bear.

Unfortunately for her, she hadn't remained as unnoticed as she had wanted. Two pairs of eyes had caught onto her foul mood and only one was brave enough to physically follow.

* * *

Outside, Samara cooled her heated body with the cool noon air. A cigarette was between her fingers and she absentmindedly smoked it. Axel had been kind enough to give her some cigarettes a few days ago and only today had she been able to enjoy them. For special occasions she reserved them, but this one seemed a desperate situation.

Heavy sigh.

Cigarettes had a strange calming effect on her and it gave Samara a different focal point. That was all she wanted. To gather her bearings and continue on her day unperturbed by depressing thoughts.

"Samara?"

Gritting her teeth, she begrudgingly looked behind her to spot Dale as he slowly approached her, genuine worry all over his features.

 _Just what I don't need._

"Don't you want to come inside?"

The woman shook her head as she returned her gaze to the fields below. "Weddings always made me glum, so it's better if I don't stick around. Not my place, really."

A gentle chuckle. "You never did feel like you belonged, even before."

Dale joined her in her vigil as they stood side by side.

"You're like Daryl used to be."

A sharp, peeved glance. "I'm _nothing_ like him."

"I meant that you choose to stay away from us even though you have a place among us." His eyes were full of warmth and Samara despised him for that. She didn't need or want his kindness. "You know, you can let yourself be happy. It's not a wrong thing to want."

Samara scoffed as she pushed her hands deep in her jean pockets, her cigarette dangling between her lips forlornly. Happiness was such a foreign word these days. Something like that hadn't been felt in a long time and Samara was beginning to doubt she even could anymore.

"…I don't think I have anymore happiness in me." She spoke emptily. "It's all just dark thoughts now."

"I don't believe that. You just buried it somewhere deep inside and I know it's hard, but you need to let yourself _feel_. You can't live the rest of your life only focused on survivin'." His lips quirked up despondently. "A sad soul kills faster than any bullet."

Her shoulders locked, her body deepening into a defensive posture with each word.

"I'm not sad, I'm just…" Her lips contorted in revolt. "Jaded. When we buried Shane, Patricia and Jimmy, I felt nothing. When I saw you and the others again, it felt like I was looking at some strangers I once met." Her cutting eyes pinned the old man in place. "Even now, there's a sense of distance."

His bushy brows almost met in the center as he frowned deeply. "You seemed content here all these weeks."

She shrugged flippantly. " _You_ people here are happy, but I don't see why." Her gaze turned to the fence with a purpose. "Do you hear them?" Carried by the cool spring wind was the faded rattling of chains accompanied by guttural growls. "How can you feel joy when you know they're just a fence away and if given the chance, they would kill you all?"

"Because if we feared all the time then what would be the point of bein' alive?" The man shrugged hopelessly. "We all have to move on with life. Nobody will think less of you if you do."

The woman scoffed derisively. "Move on to what? I've been moving forward since the day this whole shit started. Where the hell has it got me? A housing estate, a farm, a meat-locker and now a prison. And I know that soon this place will just become another location in my repertoire."

"I don't mean a physical place. You have to move on with your life, with your feelin's." He looked at the prison with a far-away gaze, almost fondly. "I knew the moment we survived cleanin' this place up, that everythin' was gonna change for the better. And it _did_."

"You lost T-Dog." She reminded him brutally. This place was not such a perfect, white cloud. There was always an underlying evil to everything.

"Everyone dies, Samara." His features contorted melancholically, thinking of his lost friend. It still hurt even after all these months. "It's just how it is. The best we can do is remember them for their goodness and bravery and never forget that they lived." Dale sighed tiredly as a shadow passed over his eyes. "My wife died about a year before the outbreak. Cancer took her. I never thought I would find happiness and peace again, but then I met Amy and Andrea and everyone else." His sadness dissipated with the appearance of a small, hopeful smile. "Even in these bleak times, there is a silver linin' to everythin'."

Such an optimistic view on life Samara couldn't comprehend. She had never been a hopeful person to begin with. She had seen far too much of the world's brutality to begin to have such happy beliefs. Reality had rooted her deeply onto the ground, never giving her the chance to fly off in grandiose dreams. Know your limits and know your place was a creed she had lived by. Delusions had no place in this world any longer. They were far too difficult to achieve, downright impossible, and yet these people still clung onto them with a childish hope.

It was revolting and yet—

"Could you love again?" Samara asked softly, begrudgingly, her stare fixated on the swirling smoke of her cigarette.

Why the hell had she even asked that? It didn't matter to her anymore. Samara would not love again. She would not share her heart with anyone—man, woman, child or animal. It was too dangerous.

"I do, but not the way you think." The man chuckled in good nature. "I love each and every one of these people, even _you_. Everyone here is my family now. Besides, I'm too old for romance." His smile turned whimsical. "Maybe if I'd been younger…"

Samara paused as his words trail on. From nowhere or possibly her gut instinct she knew the end of that sentence and it didn't even surprise her.

 _Andrea._

A small smirk curved her mouth for a second. Despite his kindness and bighearted nature, Dale was still a straight man with natural urges. Too bad he was so much older. He would have been a calming presence in her blonde friend's life.

A warm handle settled on her shoulder. "Don't give up on hope, Samara. You're still too young for that." His fingers squeezed tenderly. "There is happiness yet to be found and I know you'll find yours one day. You just have to open your heart a little and try not to be so pessimistic."

The woman sedately stared at his hand until it retreated.

"I get it." The man arranged the bucket hat on his head with a lighthearted smile. "You need time. But maybe for now, you could find a purpose. A goal to strive towards. It makes time go by easier, trust me."

Samara did not watch him depart as she remained locked in her thoughts. Her cigarette was all but forgotten as its embers had died long ago, leaving nothing but ash.

 _A goal, huh?_

Did she have one? Besides living till next day, not really. It was always moving from one point to another, never with a direction in mind. What could she possibly strive towards anymore? Money, job, spouse, cars were all useless. Start a family? She'd have to be stupid. Love? She refused.

There really was _nothing_.

Her gazer returned to her wedding ring. What would John do? He'd tell her to stop doubting herself and just follow her heart. She scoffed at such a sentimental attitude typical of him. She never followed her heart, only her head. This had been where they had differentiated the most. John had always been a dreamful romantic while she had been the sourpuss pragmatist.

But he wasn't here, was he? To help her and debate? And he never would be.

 _Maybe…_

Maybe it was time to let go.

With a deep breath, she took out the photo of her and her late husband. Staring at the degraded faces transported her to that moment when the photo was taken, but instead of fluttering butterflies she felt like a third party—apathetic and with little interest. Her fingers shook as she took off her wedding band and cupped it in her palm beside the photo.

She stared intently at these two relics of a forgotten world. It was the dawn of a new life, one that did not involve the man in the picture anymore. It wasn't right to keep clinging onto them.

They'll never go back to those times no matter how much she secretly wished for.

She took out her lighter and ignited the flame underneath the corner of the picture. With labored breaths she watched as the fire lazily devoured the picture, almost teasingly slow as if belittling her.

At first it was a bubble at the pit of her stomach, but as the flames progressed that bubbling turned to a sizzling hot sensation that traveled up her throat and threatened to drive her insane.

 _JohnisdissapearingWhatamIdoingIwillneverseehimagainOhGodsNoPleasestop_

With a horrified gasp, she dropped the photo and put out the flames with frenzied stomps. Her eyes almost bulged out in panic at the thought of forgetting his face and being left alone without an anchor in this world. Picking up the half devoured photo, she sniffled at the condition of the picture as well as her own pathetic state—lying crouched on the ground, crying nonexistent tears over a half-charred picture must be among her lowest moments.

Her fingers clenched possessively on the photo. She wasn't ready to say goodbye yet. The last remnants of her shriveled up heart wouldn't let her.

It wasn't time yet.

Picking herself up, Samara carefully pocketed the burnt picture cautious not to destroy it further. In all the commotion she had dropped the wedding band and with shame, placed it back onto its rightful place.

She needed a drink. Badly.

* * *

Inside the prison, the others continued celebrations in the absence of the newlyweds. Samara settled on a bench on the fringes of the room, mentally exhausted from her self-inflicted emotional turmoil. She barely even noticed the others joy as she sank into her own discouraging thoughts.

These were the moments where she envied Michonne and her ability to move on without looking back once. Unlike her, the dreadlock woman wasn't inclined to stagnate and ruminate in darkness.

How Samara wished she had that strength of mind.

A Christmasy looking cup filled with dark colored wine was shoved underneath her nose. She followed the arm holding the cup to the face of Daryl Dixon staring apathetically at her with his own glass in hand. Without a word, Samara took the offered cup and gulped down on the alcohol like a fish. She said nothing as the man settled on the next bench, taking the occasional sip from his own cup.

The duo didn't speak, simply stared at the merry people in front of them quietly. There was a mellow atmosphere between them, unperturbed by past or future events. Just the present.

"That was a nice weddin' all things considered."

Samara grumbled as her eyes followed Tyreese's failed attempts at PDA with a very reluctant Michonne. "Mhmm. I wonder how long it'll last."

"You shouldn't think that. You'll jinx it."

Samara chuckled deep in her throat. Of all people he had to say that. "I forgot you believe in Chupacabras."

The man finally turned with a thundering expression. "I knew you were an asshole, but not a miserable one. You could try to at least fake bein' happy for Glenn and Maggie."

"What's the point?" Her shoulders rose hopelessly as she finished her cup of shitty wine. "One of them is gonna die one day and the other will be left to pick up the pieces. If they think otherwise then they're just deluding themselves. I'll never understand why anyone would want go through that."

"Because havin' someone is better than bein' alone."

Samara's eyes fluttered in a startle. She tried to look into his eyes, but he refused to make contact. Did he really believe that? Was that why he chased after her in the first place?

That stable air now took an uncomfortable turn. She had not expected such words from him. Daryl had always been a lone wolf, but then again even wolves sought out the company of a pack in their loneliest days.

She wondered…

April was not far away, just a few weeks and it will be time to split. Samara had no intention to spend that time wallowing in self-pity and regrets.

Her eyes traveled back to the hunter.

In her 34 years of life, she knew of only one method that managed to successfully distract her from difficult problems. It wasn't the healthiest or nicest, but she was short on options.

"Hey…"

Daryl grunted to indicate that he was listening.

"You wanna fuck?"

Daryl promptly choked on his drink.

Samara patiently waited for him to regain his bearings as his coughing subsided.

"You drunk again?" He wiped the spittle and alcohol from his chin in disbelief.

Her right hand rose in a solemn swear. "Sober as a judge."

"Why?"

"To pass the time. Just because. Weddings make me horny." She shrugged languidly. "Pick one."

The man scoffed as he turned away. "Don't want nothin' from you."

"Really?" Samara didn't believe a word. The fact that he had kissed her back at that moonshine house was proof that he wasn't over whatever attraction he held for her. "Then why are you standing here with little ol' gloomy me when your friends are over there enjoying themselves?"

He scowled. "I don't always need a reason for sittin' where I want or talkin' to you."

"Yeah, keep telling yourself that." Samara smirked derisively. "Maybe one day you'll actually start believing it."

His glare deepened.

The woman lost her mocking disposition and settled back into apathy. She wasn't willing to rattle him right now, she still wanted something from him and being cooperative and open was the best strategy.

"My offer still stands. Just you and me and that warden's couch for some fun times. Sounds nice right about now." She smiled lazily, almost temptingly as her lashes lowered seductively. "At least, it's more exciting than sitting here, drinking this shitty wine, watching others be happy and waiting for this whole thing to end so we can return to our tedious day-to-day lives."

Daryl said nothing as his eyes returned back to the others. They were happy while the two trackers seemed out of touch, just gazing at that joy from the sidelines.

Samara really wished he would take up on her offer. At this point, she held no more reservations when it came to him. She'd already slept with him before, once more wouldn't hurt. Besides, while she still found him pleasing to the eye, it wasn't as strong as before. She did not fear forming an attachment to him.

As the time passed, the urge to rid herself of these dark thoughts pushed her into contemplating breaking into the medical ward for some R&R with some morphine. If the man beside her wouldn't take up her offer (and it was becoming increasingly clear he wouldn't) then she had to find a different distraction. Perhaps she could get drunk off that bad wine—

Clink.

Daryl placed his cup on the floor and rose to his feet, still avoiding eye contact with her.

"Come on."

The marshal's brows shot up in surprise. She watched as he departed towards the corridor leading to a part of the building that she had only visited once. A sly smirk curved her lips as she rose to her feet, careful of being noticed and followed in his footsteps like a stalking panther.

Samara licked her lips as she felt her stomach flutter in anticipation. She wasn't about to question his motives behind accepting her proposal and she wasn't curious either way. She was just glad for the distraction his body will provide.

With a swift flick she slipped off the ring and pocketed it. If Samara was doing this, she'd rather not wear it.

It was time to forget. Even for just a little while…

* * *

Samara gasped.

Heavily, she plopped onto Daryl's chest, thoroughly spent.

They both breathed laboriously with sweat lining their brows. As before, Daryl kept most of his clothes on while Samara had only managed to undress herself halfway before the man pounced on her like a hungry tiger. It had been a frenzied coupling, aggressive and heated.

It had been just _right_.

No affection just passion born out of want and repressed sexual need. This furious energy suited both of them, who were unused to warmth and gentleness. This is where their first experienced failed, they had attributed too much thought into it. This time it had been clear-cut with no rules or ultimatums.

Samara rolled off the hunter and put a little distance between them as she struggled to regain her breathing. Daryl wasn't in any better shape as he raked his finger though his wet hair and closed his eyes to ride out the last blissful spasms in his body.

Both remained focused on themselves and their own feelings rather than the other and that mindset had been felt throughout the deed. They just took what they needed from the other unapologetically. This foray had never been about fondness and anything romantic. For Samara it had been a need for release from her murky thoughts and Daryl probably had his own reason that did not involve happy, fuzzy feelings since he didn't try to touch her and Samara was thankful for that. If he did, he would have ruined the mood again. At least he learned from his mistakes.

This had been a mutual beneficial transaction, if she put it in practical terms, and she was pleased with its results.

"Hey…"

"What?" Samara peeked over her shoulder as her heart finally regained a normal beating rate.

"Is this gonna be a thing? Whenever you get the urge to scratch whatever itch you got you come to me?"

His shrewd eyes told her everything. He knew she had just used him for her own selfish needs.

"Did I offend your manly pride, Dixon?"

"Just askin'." He scoffed, eyes clear with understanding and acceptance. No trace of disgust or hatred for her egotistical actions.

Samara physically turned to him on her side, her head resting in her palm. "You're taking this lightly, all things considered."

Too lightly considering his explosive nature, if she were to be truthful.

The man shrugged. "When it comes to you, the easiest path is always the better. The complicated one involves too many fried nerves. I don't got the patience to go through that again."

Samara smirked as she followed his train of thought. Less is better when it came to the two of them. The more they delved into matters, the more they tangled themselves in foreign emotions and thoughts. The kind that they had no intention of ever acknowledging.

If these troubling situations were avoided then there would be no need for fights and arguments or doubts and troubled hearts.

"I don't know." Samara blew a lock of hair from her face. "I didn't plan this like last time. It was spontaneous."

The man seemed absorbed in his thoughts as he spoke subtlety, but cleared than ever. "Maybe that's all it's gotta be."

Samara's eyes glowed sharply. _Is he saying…_

The hunter returned her stare with a composed one. His unspoken words were in that calm gaze and Samara's heart skipped a beat. Not out of fluster, but pleasure. The prospect of what he was proposing wasn't so far-fetched and if it could continue like it did now then all the better. Samara didn't need goals, she needed distracters. This unspoken union would make her remaining weeks enjoyable and keep her occupied enough to forget the glistening ring on her finger and the half-burnt photo in her pants.

The only problem was if they could maintain it so cordially.

Samara internally belittled herself. If she couldn't keep this stable plateau they had reached until she left then she really failed at being a human being.

"You know I'm leaving."

He shrugged again. "So what?"

The Native's eyes narrowed fractionally. She was unsure of his sincerity since he was making it very hard to read him. If he really was over his short-lived obsession with her then she congratulated him, but if not and these actions would only worsen it then he'll be in a world of hurt.

 _Eh._

 _Not my problem._

There was an excitement growing within Samara, similar to when she was faced with danger. This development would involve sneaking around and stealing passionate moments and Samara felt a thrill at such a young person's game.

 _Heh…Something good came out of that wedding after all._

"Maybe it does…"


	25. To Each Their Own Burden

The gravel crunched underneath her boots.

Samara sighed as she dispatched a rotted walker hanging for dear unlife on the fence. She and the convict duo were on cleanup duty and were taking their time in their work. It was a lazy warm morning and the fence was relatively clear save for only a few clingy ones.

Samara's mind was elsewhere as she wiped the blackish blood off her machete. To be more precise, it was on the deal she had entered a week ago with the resident hunter. Not that she was complaining, but it all seemed so bizarre. She still couldn't wrap her mind around it.

Daryl for the most part had been taking it considerably well. Considering that he was the one to initiate this whole chain of events, Samara was surprised at the level of clarity and distance he was treating it with. The Native was a hundred percent sure that the Georgia man felt more about her than a quick romp on that old couch and a part of her was terrified of the degree of it, but she was also foolishly curious to see how far he could go before snapping. A morbid game of cat and mouse, so to say.

But, as always, the Native chose no to dwell on his feelings or thoughts of her. She would rather ignore them entirely and just bask in the euphoria of their secret rendezvous. Samara had her own demons to keep at bay and the dilemma called Daryl had no more room to fit in at the moment.

"I think we should have a match."

Samara frowned.

Axel was watching both her and Oscar with an excited spark in his eyes as if this idea was so brilliant he couldn't contain himself from sharing it. Unfortunately, neither marshal nor convict seemed all to thrilled with the prospect of an actual game.

"I'm serious!" The thin mam tried to energize them. "We could make two teams, have ourselves a real game. We have enough players, don't we?"

"Not really." Oscar scratched the side of his nose as he lost himself in thought. "There are nine players on each side. Right now we have myself, you, the marshal, Carl and Andrea."

"We could ask some of the others if they want to play. Maybe not exactly a nine-man team, but close enough." The man was persistent as he flashed a large, excited smile. "I think it would do us all good to let off some steam."

"It would…" Samara conceded. It would also be a good distraction. A good old fashioned game never hurt and they could all take a break from duties and worries.

At both Samara and Oscar's affirmation, Axel all but jumped in joy. "I could ask the others and see who else would like to join in and make a list."

"I'm game on one condition—" Oscar crossed his arms as he stared pointedly at the former marshal. "The two of us play on opposite sides."

Samara blinked languidly before smirking sharply. Oscar was challenging her—

Her eyes narrowed, only now excited.

–And it was a challenge she would undertake.

"Alright, both of us are the captains." The Native returned his unwavering stare. "Once Axel gets a list, we chose our players and may the best team win."

The corner of his lips twitched, on the verge of breaking into a victorious grin. "I'm alright with that."

As the two puffed up their chests in challenge, Axel's mind was already on how to make the game happen. This was the first time in years that he's gotten himself so excited over an idea he conjured. He felt like he could do anything at that moment, but what he wanted the most was to make his 'dream' come true.

* * *

Noon hit and Samara found herself in Hershel's garden working with the old man and Maggie and Glenn. They were tending the growing plants and Hershel was talking her ear off about farming and cultivation. Samara soaked it all up like a sponge and tried to imprint each word into her mind. One day this knowledge might be useful and she wasn't about to waste the opportunity. The Native could tell by the tone of Hershel's voice that he was enjoying himself with sharing his knowledge with someone eager to learn.

Samara did 't even know what time it was when the Kentucky sheriff decided to join them.

"You two seem to be havin' fun." His hands found their preferred place on his hips.

Samara wiped the accumulated sweat off her forehead. "All in a day's work."

Hershel cussed under his breath and moved away as quickly as one leg would take him. His new son-in-law was about ready to unknowingly butcher a bean plant and he needed to be stopped and properly taught how to take care of it.

Rick's eyes followed the old man's wobble, but his words were addressed to her.

"Axel approached me this mornin' if I want to join up a baseball team. Says that there's gonna be a match soon." His brow peaked dubiously. "Your idea?"

"His."

He nodded understandingly. "It's a good idea on his part. A game around here might be just what we need to loosen up a bit. Maybe get some of that old feelin' back."

Samara's eyes sharpened from underneath her cowboy hat. In a flash, the man turned from confident leader to someone pensive, weighted down by heavy thoughts.

"The old days, huh?" She scratched her chin thoughtfully, smudging it with dirt. "You know, it hasn't even been a year since the virus broke out and we're already talking about the old world as if decades have passed."

"It does feel like it, don't it?" Rick lowered down to her level. All traces of joy seemed to have evaporated as a dark cloud reigned over his head. "Sometimes, I swear I feel like the old life was just a dream I had while in that coma and wakin' up from it brought me back to reality…" A strange, empty film settled over his eyes. "Or maybe I'm still in that coma and _this_ is the dream. Any moment now I'll wake up in that hospital bed in Cynthiana with Lori and Carl by my side and Shane…" He breathed in deeply. "Shane still alive and not crazy."

 _That would be an_ incredible _mindfuck,_ Samara thought as she stared at the man passively. The sheriff was in a strange mood. Enough that it sent alarm bells ringing.

"You've been giving this a thought." That was putting it lightly.

There was something haunted in those blue irises as he stared deeply into Samara's eyes. "Sometimes…when the quiet is too loud."

She understood that. The almost pin dropping quiet of the world had her, at times, think strange things. Worse, when that focus was turned on herself and her own sanity came under question.

Her attention traveled back to the man in front. The film was still there, no doubt Rick was seeing different times when things weren't so messed up and she could tell _who_ he was thinking of.

"You miss him, don't you?"

The man blinked out of the haze, disrupting the memory playing out before him. He sighed forlornly as he raked his finger through his shaggy hair. "I've known Shane since high-school. We did everythin' together. He was the best man at my weddin' and Carl's godfather. We worked together, we were _partners_. I would've given my life for him and he would have done the same for me. Not _once_ did he act like he did in this new world. He never envied or tried to take what I had. I hate how it changed him into this unrecognizable man. It didn't need to end like that. Him dead in the middle of a field, shot by my own son." His eyes darkened as flashes of his anger and gradual descent into madness had Rick question the nature of all of Shane's actions, words and gestures from before the virus. "Or maybe I just didn't know him that well."

"How well can you know someone, really?" Samara mused as she drew squiggles in the earth. "It's all just layers atop layers, hiding the core of your being because the real you might not reach the social standards of what a person should be like. It's rare for a person to be completely honest with his nature." She smirked. "I know I wasn't."

"You think everyone at their core is bloodthirsty and savage." Rick hit the mark point blank.

"After everything you've seen, can you really doubt that?"

"…Yeah, I can."

Samara's eyes narrowed fractionally. If only he hadn't hesitated at first she would have believed him a hundred percent, but it seemed that even he wasn't naïve enough to still think the world was still good at heart. His doubts were enough for now.

Rick shook his head to dispel his dreary thoughts and returned to a more passive appearance.

"Sorry, I know you don't wanna hear this. I just came here to tell you I signed up for the game. Now, I don't know much about baseball. I never played it, not even when I was a kid. I was more of a soccer fan, but I'm a quick study."

"You'll be fine." Samara tipped her hat to hide her face from the sun and him. "This is not some professional match, just us."

The man departed soon after with the former marshal's eyes still glued to him. The man was in a slump and yet, he still kept up the appearance that nothing could touch him. But around her he let go and exposed his burdens and doubts. Not because she was special, but simply because Rick knew she wouldn't judge him for being troubled. For not being the strong leader everyone wanted him to be.

A part of her wished she could just sit down with him and let him unburden himself of everything that weighted his heart down, but if Samara did that she'd open a door she closed on him months ago. And what was behind that door could create her own doubts about leaving.

It was too late for that.

* * *

Smoke coiled above his face as Daryl lay on the dusty carpet in the warden's office staring at the ceiling with empty eyes. He was still too lethargic to close his jeans properly or even wipe off the sweat from his brow as butterflies still danced sweetly in his groin.

The woman that brought him to such heights was on the couch, hogging it all for herself, with her back turned to him. She never remained near him after the deed, always moved at a distance as if cautious of rogue fingers. In a way, he was relieved she took that precaution, but on the other Daryl was annoyed that she kept such distance. He wasn't going to bite her if she stayed beside him.

They never talked much after, just exhausted themselves and Samara was the first to leave. There was no need for anything more. It was better if they didn't try to seek answers or place a purpose to it. Simply just go with the flow. It was a mutual understanding, one that both seemed to be content with. Whenever they felt the urge they would join up at the warden's office and indulge and forget, and once they left that room, it was back to business. They had reached a perfectly even ground where it left both parties satisfied. If they did broach the subject, Daryl was sure they'd end up back to square one and for now, he did not wish for that.

—If this was the only way he got to spend time with her and the heat of her body then he wasn't going to ruin it.

It was difficult at times as the urge to touch her sometimes overcame his self-control and Daryl woke up with his hand hallway stretched towards her. He'd retract just in the nick of time as Samara would roll over to get dressed. He knew that if she noticed his 'affection', as she put it, she would put a swift end to their deal.

It was hollow, their joining. There was passion and fire, yes, but no real warmth. Samara was emotionally distant throughout and Daryl was hyper vigilant of doing nothing to disturb the peace. They both were afraid of each other and it was felt in the distance between them.

Sometimes, Daryl couldn't believe he had offered her this deal. Like waking up from a dream and realizing that it had been true and not a figment of the imagination. He had wanted to crack his forehead against a wall the moment those words were uttered and he genuinely had come up with ideas how to get out of it, but considering how shallow this 'thing' between them was treated, there was not much for him to worry.

Daryl tried to be honest with himself. Denying his thoughts and needs never once worked in his best interest.

—He _wanted_ this woman. Even after all this time and after all the shit they went through, he still wanted to touch her and be near her. This wasn't to say that he forgave all the things she had said and done or that he suddenly liked her unconditionally. There were still times where he disliked the Native with fervor or she exasperated him beyond reason, but there was still that spark that pulled him towards her. The expression 'love/hate' came to mind, only he usually replaced the word 'love' with anything else that wasn't in the same spectrum.

Physically, that wasn't even a question. He appreciated the shape of her body even if she was more toned than what he was used to. And perhaps, somewhere deep down, he wanted her even a bit emotionally. Although, that part he ignored with a passion. What could he possibly expect from a cold shrew like her was beyond his capabilities of understanding. Hell would arrive on Earth before she showed him a smidgen of affection.

Daryl was beginning to think he was cursed with his taste in this one particular woman. She was the first of her kind that he ever slept with. Back in the days, he avoided strong-willed women like her. They were a lot of hassle, plus they were too bossy. Daryl was an old-fashioned type of guy. He still liked taking the lead in a relationship.

Daryl's eyes moved to her partially naked back. Russet skin with the spine visible underneath the skin, but even from this distance he could see the scars that the hardships of life bestowed on her. Samara was the anti-thesis of a feminine woman. She was crude, harsh, hardheaded and cruel and violent at times. Everything he did not appreciate in women and yet…He still wasn't able to look away. Whatever web she spun, he had been effortlessly caught in it without her even realizing it.

—He was hooked on a drug and he wasn't in a hurry anymore to kick the habit.

His eyes lowered to her behind and thighs and he smirked in amusement.

"Never thought you'd have a tattoo down there." Down there being on the length of her inner thigh right near her sex. Red roses with thorns. Again, something feminine that didn't suit her. "Gotta say I was surprised to find that one."

He noticed the light flick of her shoulders, not expecting him to initiate a conversation.

"It's a cover-up. There used to be a name there."

"You tattooed a guy's name on you? And here I thought you were too _independent_ for that."

"It was a stupid mistake made by an even stupider teenager and her novice tattoo artist boyfriend." Samara scoffed as she still kept her back to him. "Should have never let that idiot mark me like that. He turned out to be a shit artist."

Daryl folded one arm underneath his head as he stared at the glowing red ash on his cigarette. "Got any other boyfriends tattooed beneath those two on your arms?"

"No, I didn't date that often and even when I did, men never stuck around for long. I gave them the boot or they left because I was too much to handle."

The corner of his lips tugged upwards. "I bet you made it as hard as you could on them."

Pause.

There was an awkward expectant air in the room and Daryl almost sighed in vexation at the thought that she clammed up. But to his surprise, she turned on her back with her face towards him.

"Sometimes." Her tone was faraway as she gazed at him lightly. "They were all too bland. There was no passion, no excitement just tedious day to day stuff normal couples do."

"What's so bad about that?"

She shrugged. "Nothing, just not to my taste."

Daryl huffed. He understood where she was going with her words.

"Got a thing for the _bad_ ones, huh?"

The corner of her lips quirked up for a moment. "I'm pretty sure that's why I found you attractive in the first place. The woods, Hampton, Bowdon. There's never a dull moment with you."

Daryl felt his insides burn. A compliment? That had been unexpected. But the mention of Hampton all but killed the good mood for him.

He scowled as that unfortunate trip that he approved of came to mind. He'll never forgive himself for letting the woman have her way that one time.

"I don't think runnin' for our lives was exactly a thrill seek, neither was seein' you try to put a bullet through your skull."

Her eyes took on a faraway gaze as she stared through him in whatever thought she was pondering. "Even dying had its own special breed of energy. It makes your heart beat uncontrollably and your blood simper. There's this cold shake to your body from the massive overload of adrenaline that makes your head feel like it's going to burst. You don't know if in the next second you'll live or die." The shadow of an eerie smile flashed. "There is some strange _beauty_ in it."

If she were expecting for him to be impressed by her pretty words then she was sourly mistaken. In fact, it was quite the opposite.

"You should try listenin' to yourself sometimes." Daryl said with grave lips. "I don't think you know how fucked up that sounded. Like you have a death wish."

"Maybe I do…"

Daryl frowned. This wasn't the first time she had mentioned death with such carelessness and it never failed to send a shiver down his spine.

"You often think of death?" He all but whispered.

She broke out in a chuckle as she gazed at his ashen features. "I'm not going to off myself, Daryl. I still have some life left in me. Besides, I want to see how far I can get in this new world."

It still didn't put him at ease. This world wasn't easy and even the strongest of men had their breaking point. Samara was no different. This was why he feared her leaving. If something did happen and she cracked…he wouldn't be there to stop her.

Something in his chest tightened painfully at the thought of her death. It was the farm back all over again, only this time it was worse. There were more at stake than just a promised hunting trip.

"How many tattoos do _you_ have?"

His worries came to a halt as his eyes connected with hers. Without doubt, from her defensive posture, she had seen the flash of panic that slipped out of his tight grip and opted to close the subject on such a morbid topic.

Daryl licked his sudden dry lips and cleared his throats as if nothing had happened. As if his mind didn't just conjure up an image of her being devoured by walkers and shoving that gun underneath her chin, her brains splattering all over the ground.

"Four." He indicated the winged devil on his upper inner arm. "That one. This star." A crude hollow star on his wrist. "This." A tiny, simple X on his clavicle. "And another one on my back. It's bigger than the others."

"Show me."

"No."

It wasn't even debatable.

The woman's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "You never show your back. Are you deformed or something?"

"Just don't wanna."

Her scoff sounded more like a bark. "Oh, that's a _great_ reason. Next time, I won't feel like taking my pants off. Actually, I'll stay fully clothed and you can use your _girlfriend,"_ She made a jacking off motion with her hand. "To satisfy you."

"Don't make a deal out of it." His frown turned into a scowl, wishing to be over this subject. "It's nothin'."

The woman scoffed again and rose to a sit. Daryl watched passively as she clothed herself, signaling the end of their little rendezvous.

Daryl sometimes wondered how it would feel if he were the first to go and leave her alone in this quiet room. She'd probably be pissed and he was tempted to try it next time. It didn't feel great being discarded without a backwards glance and he was sure she'd take offense. She was still a woman underneath those harsh layers and they tended to get rather catty when they got ignored and treated like a used dishrag.

He sighed as he heard the click of the door and threw an arm over his eyes to block out the world. He could still smell her on him and Daryl couldn't get the thought of wanting to share body warmth with her out of his head.

 _I'm really screwed._

* * *

 _ **Foot Note:**_ Poor Daryl, he's the only one emotionally invested (or trying not to) in this while Samara is basically being an ice cube for her own reasons. It sucks having to repress yourself because you basically give a shit about someone, but attraction is not always sunshine and daisies.

Daryl's tattoos…I'm not really sure how many Reedus has, but I didn't include all of them just the ones mentioned.


	26. And the Ball is Rolling

So…sorry for the massive delay. I know for you guys it must have been disappointing from almost weekly updates to silence for the last few months. I've been having some problems of the corazon kind and long story short, I was the one that got the short end of the stick. So, my motivation to write anything romantic plummeted. Even the thought of reading my chapters left me slightly disgusted, but I'm better now, and slowly I'm getting back on the writing horse. I'll try to be more active, but we'll see how it goes. Don't worry, I'm not dropping the fic. I've invested too much time and sweat into it.

So, enjoy the new chapter, even though it's a little bit shorter.

* * *

For the first time since arriving at the prison, its walls and cell blocks were empty. The halls were left as they were found, cold and still as life had been seeped out of its veins. Without people, what is a home but just an empty building?

But if you walk deeper into the grounds, at the back of the prison, you will find quite a different story—

"Strike! You're out!"

"What?! Come on. I almost had it!"

"Almost doesn't mean you made it."

"I call foul play! Let me try again!"

"This ain't football, dumbass."

Samara snuffed a guffaw as she watched Glenn argue with the acting umpire, Dale, while Daryl tried to rush them so they could move on.

The promised baseball match was underway.

They group wasn't the most professional or even amateur level, but it was entertaining to watch. More than half didn't have a clue what they were doing and the other was imitating what they saw in movies. All in all, it was fun and everyone seemed to enjoy it.

It was a good day.

"Come on, babe. Next time you'll do better." Maggie coaxed her vexed husband. "Give someone else a turn."

Glenn pouted, but he still passed on the bat. Next up was Oscar and here Samara knew she had to be vigilant. The ex-con knew the game and knew how to swing a bat.

 _Breathe in, breathe out._

Samara lined up herself and readied her swing. She was on the pitcher mound, moments from throwing in some of her wining pitches that had marked her a star of her junior league days. She wouldn't miss this one. Not when Oscar was her opponent and she could see the twinkle in his eye that spoke 'I'm going to win'. That was a passive-aggressive challenge in itself.

Samara could hear the three man audience cheering while her teammates shouted encouragements and the opposing team teased and booed friendly.

 _Breathe in._

Toes curled. Fingers clenched. Breath hitched.

Swing.

Eyes widened.

 _It's going to pass. It's going to—_

Grimace.

 _Oh shit._

Oscar clenched the bat fiercely and swung like his life depended on it. To Samara, it was already clear how it was going to play out.

Boom!

Anymore force and the wood would have splintered. Samara watched with a displeased frown as the ball soared high, agitating the others as they scrambled to catch the ball.

And lo and behold, her salvation came in the form of Daryl who was running backwards, his eyes on the ball and, for a second, Samara doubted that he would catch it as past thoughts reared their ugly heads.

A smile lit up her face as she watched the hunter jump and catch the ball, saving her team from losing ground. Her cheer stood on the tip of her tongue, but the moment her mouth opened she choked back on her words as, out of nowhere, Tyreese tackled the Georgia man to the ground. And not a friendly, bro type of tackle, but a full-blown football, protection gear on, muscled athletic guy's tackle. Samara had only seen that during Super Bowl.

Samara's reaction wasn't alone. The others had more or less the same reaction as they stood mute and dumb at the man's actions.

"What the fuck!?" Daryl growled in a strained, whizzing voice as soon as he regained his speech from the painful, jarring impact.

"Oh, shit! I'm so sorry, Daryl." Tyreese immediately got off him and started apologizing to the moon and back. "It was a slip. I forgot where we were."

"What? Did you get a Vietnam flashback?" He coughed as he held his bruised chest. "Jesus, that hurt."

Samara approached her 'wounded soldier' and looked him over for a second. He was alright. Ego bruised, but that usually healed..

Daryl waved off the others that offered their help. Even stopping Tyreese from apologizing was hard, he didn't need others babying him. Their worry was getting him agitated and Samara could see it reaching its limit. Thank the Gods for Grimes who saw the volatile temper rising and offered a hand up. The Georgia man took it despite the pain and shortened breath and raised himself to his feet. He placated the still few worried people and walked—slightly limping—back to his post.

On his way, he handed the ball back to Samara who stood a distance from the commotion. Her lips pursed tightly in a straight line.

"I thought this was a friendly game." The man hissed as he massaged his tender flesh. His raspy voice reminded the woman of a person who had been smoking all his life three packs a day.

"It is."

Daryl paused and squinted his eyes further.

"Are you laughin'?" He asked incredulously. "Me gettin' hurt makes you giggle?"

At that moment, he had no idea how hard it was to keep her face from breaking into laughter. Except for the small crack in her lips, Samara looked the picture of nonchalance. But inside…

"Perhaps."

-She was laughing her ass off.

Daryl spat disgruntled as he passed her by without a second notice. Definitely, ego bruised.

It was involuntarily on her part. She just couldn't get the picture out of her mind of Tyreese, who was well built like a mountain, bulldoze into Daryl, who was mostly thin with some muscle. Like a boulder rolling over a thin tree. It was just too funny.

The man probably had gotten too excited and remembered his football days and the adrenaline that came with it. Samara had never seen anyone confuse sports like that, but everything had its first.

Even now, Tyreese shouted an apology which had Samara bite her knuckles to stop herself from guffawing. Tyreese was the likeness of a kicked puppy left in the rain.

 _This is just too much._

"Hey! Can we start playin' again or what?" Impatient, Oscar hollered from his position.

Ah, of course. The show must go on.

The game went on and, of course, Samara's team lost. By some miracle, Oscar's team had a recovery and kicked her team's ass in the last moments.

At first, Samara had been angry. She had wanted to yell at her teammates for playing so badly, but abstained herself at the last second. This hadn't been a competition for them. The others had just wanted to have fun and they did judging from their smiling faces and joyous laughter. Who was she to ruin that because of a rivalry between her and the ex-con?

Samara approached the man as he stood apart from his cheering teammates, proud of his win and slightly smug about it.

"Not a bad game, marshal." The man said as he crossed his arms.

Samara nodded begrudgingly. "Not bad yourself. Rematch?"

He smirked teasingly. "Sure, I'm always lookin' for the opportunity to kick your ass."

"Not if I do next time." Samara smirked herself, only sharper. A promise.

The man extended his hand and the Native shook it. Nothing but mutual respect crossed between them from their shared silent gaze.

Of course, and a promise for matches to come.

"The others are happy." Oscar mused as he watched everyone celebrate and talk amongst each other. There was no sadness or jealousy over the game, just sportsmanship and good mood. There were no losers and winners, just friends and family letting off some steam and enjoying the moment that they were still alive and able to have fun.

"Yes, they are."

The Native smiled.

* * *

"Stop that." Daryl swatted the wayward finger that kept prodding his ribs.

Samara slid her hand back underneath her chin as she gazed down at the injured hunter from her perch on the couch. She wasn't fully smiling, just a faint upturn of her lips, but Daryl could see the wild amusement swimming in her eyes.

After the game they had both retreated in their hideout and spent some downtime, feeding off the leftover adrenaline from the game.

"Does it still hurt?"

"What do you think?" He grumbled as he massaged the sore area. "Gettin' hit by Tyreese is like gettin' hit by a ram. I'm surprised he didn't bust a rib or two."

The corner of her mouth sharpened. "Do you want me to kiss it and make it better?"

He knew she was just feeding her own amusement, but Daryl still felt a shiver pass over his skin. Her kisses usually involved teeth.

"I'm kidding."

He snorted. "I know that. You're more likely to bite me."

This time she smirked like the pleased cat.

Daryl left his bruised chest in peace and placed his hands at the back of his head. His attention naturally gravitated back to the other person in the room. She didn't turn away this time. Samara kept facing him even after the deed which was a first. Of course, that just might be so she could poke him with the metaphorical stick for his growing pain, but Daryl liked to think otherwise. At least, only slightly.

He had been surprised how fun the match had been. Everyone had enjoyed it, even the ones that didn't participate. It had been something normal…or at least as normal as the lives the others have had before. To Daryl it had been a refreshing experience.

He actually enjoyed it.

"Didn't know you play baseball."

Samara focused back on him. Like always she seemed to veer off into space and stare out blankly if not engaged in conversation.

"It was my favorite game when I was a kid. My team actually won the Arizona Junior Championship." She smiled nostalgically. "That was one of my proudest moments."

"Because of a kid's game?" He couldn't understand.

"At that time it felt like a conquered the world. All kids feel like that after they accomplish something that gets their hearts pumping, even something as small as a sport match."

"I never did."

Her eyes took on a probing sheen. "You played any sports?"

"Nah, just dumb games with the other kids."

The Native was silent for a moment and Daryl could almost see the cogs moving as she processed his words. He already knew what was going through her mind. What went through everyone's head when bits and pieces of his past were revealed.

"You didn't have a lot growing up."

Daryl didn't even react. She hadn't spoken in a demeaning tone, simply stating a fact. While it still managed to tick him off, it wasn't as strong as when he was younger. Fights had started on those simple words alone.

"That house back near Ropville, I grew up in a similar one." He spoke with no intonation. Calculated as always when he spoke about his past which he was ever reluctant. "That's how I knew what it was."

She nodded. "Figured as much. Your revulsion to it was pretty obvious."

"Yeah well, we don't all get to grow up in a happy family, go to college, get nice jobs and marry. Some of us don't get that luxury."

She snorted derisively. "Is that what you think? That I had a happy-go-lucky life?"

He shook his head. "Fact that you joined the army tells me what I need to know."

"Oh really?" She raised her upper body on her elbows, curious as a puppy. "Do tell."

Daryl was reluctant. Samara had a tendency to react badly at things spoken about or against her, and Daryl didn't want to ruin the peaceful mood they were enjoying, but if she really wanted to know… "My brother did the same. Signed up as soon as he turned eighteen to get away. Didn't last though. Got kicked out soon 'cause of his temper. Saw it comin', but Merle wouldn't listen." He shook his head, reliving the memory when he got a call from the next town over that his brother was passed out drunk and methed out of his mind. A way to 'celebrate' his failure. "Dumbass…"

A shadow seemed to veil over the Native's eyes and she frowned as if in deep thought. It looked like she was raking her brain for something, but soon she gave up and returned to her earlier passive mood.

"So, I take it you've never left Georgia?"

Daryl shrugged. "Didn't have a reason to."

"How about not dying in the same place you were born?"

"As I said, not all of us get that luxury."

She rolled her eyes, slightly exasperated. "It's better than sitting on your ass in the same place, watching your life go by. Anything is better than that."

"Never felt that need. I like Georgia. Maybe not everythin' about it, but it was what I knew best." His eyes slid to her. "Choosin' to enlist? _That_ seems extreme."

"A lot of people did it, mostly for the college support. I never went for that. I wanted to see the world from sky high—"

"While down below people shot and killed each other." Daryl finished.

"Everything has its pros and cons." She shrugged nonchalantly, but Daryl caught the faint twitch in her brow.

"Suits you, I guess." He prodded her. "The chaos war causes."

This time he got a real reaction as Samara glared nastily. "Fuck you. You think I liked seeing so many dead, so many atrocities?"

"Didn't mean it like that, damn. I just think that you work better in tight situations. You like bein' away from the safety of the prison. Freedom from others and responsibilities. You're more alive out there than behind walls. I noticed that back at the farm. That's why you always want to get away, right?"

 _Among other things…_

This time Samara seemed to recoil from the truth in his words. "I'm _not_ running, I just never could stay in one place too long. I always got this sense of containment, like something was trying to chain me down. That's why I stayed as a pilot so many years. Not because of my comrades or out of a patriotic sense of duty, but because I felt more alive traveling place to place than I ever felt in my entire life. I was in control of my own existence." A haze settled over her expression, reminiscent of days past. "It was a change from living in some boring reservation in Arizona. I didn't want to follow in my dad's footsteps and become Navajo Police, marry some local man and have kids." Her lips contorted. "It hadn't turn out so well for him so why the hell would I want that?"

Her expression changed in a fraction of a second—from frustration to alarm. She glanced at him worriedly then avoided eye contact. She realized too late that she had said too much.

 _Ah_.

Now he understood.

"Like I said, I can tell." She shouldn't hide. He, out of all people, understood her plight more than she thought.

"I didn't have some broken home, you dick." She bared her teeth agitated from her slip of tongue. "My dad was a great guy. He was a lot like Grimes. Very principled and upright. Only difference was, he was more practical. He understood the broader picture and was prepared to make sacrifices if needed. He raised me to never rely on anyone that wasn't worth the struggle."

In other words, he raised her to face the world alone and without crutches. The result was staring him right in the face and Daryl couldn't complain. It was a huge difference from being just another person that needed help all the time. This was one of the things he respected about her.

Her father had probably been strict. Lawmen always were, especially if they had daughters. That coupled with boot camp mentality and law enforcement rules had turned her into one mean and headstrong woman.

"You never said nothin' about your ma." Never once had she mentioned the existence of a mother and it made him curious.

She seemed to retreat from the conversation as she erected that wall that exasperated the hunter on occasion. "We're all allowed to have our skeletons…"

In other words, mind your own business.

Silence reigned between them. It wasn't awkward or tense, just simple neutrality. This was better than her usual icy disposition towards him.

"You know, I never quite figured this out, but…" She stared shrewdly at him. "What _were_ you doing before the virus? How did you live?"

Daryl shrugged. "Don't matter."

"So I get to spill the beans, but you don't?" She huffed, mildly indignant.

"I ain't obligated to."

This time she scoffed derisively.

And with that their time together came to an end as Samara rose from her languid position and started getting dressed. Daryl watched detached as she went through the motions, every now and then his interest peaking when she reached different—more enjoyable—parts of her body.

As Daryl watched those nimble fingers move around it dawned on him that something was amiss.

Something was missing from her hands. What was—

It then clicked.

Her ring was missing.

"You lost it?"

She turned confused.

"What?"

He pointed towards her naked finger void of the shiny golden symbol of holy matrimony.

She stared in reflex at her hand before shrugging casually. Too casual for his taste.

"No, I took it off."

Again, the hunter was left confused. She had been wearing it almost like a tattoo all this time. Seeing her without it…

It left Daryl wondering.

* * *

So, I kinda rushed the baseball scene because one: I don't know anything about baseball. We don't have that in my country and I have almost zero interest in sports. Sorry about that, but you get the gist of it. I was more interested in the relationship part of it and the funny side.

I think I rushed the whole chapter to be honest. Right now, I'm writing off my IPad and it kinda sucks because I'm used to the PC. Unfortunately, it died on me after ten years. Rest in peace, you beautiful piece of junk. *lights up a lighter for a moment of silence*


	27. Do You Hear Thunder?

Hey again. So, this chapter is still short, what can you do, but at least it's an update.

This was supposed to be part of a bigger chapter but I separated it because it didn't fit. Next one should be longer.

Enjoy!

* * *

Crunch.

Samara hisses under her breath as she zig-zaged her way through debris. The hallway she was crossing was littered with aged paper, broken glass and pieces of destroyed furniture, and the walls were coated with crusted, blackish blood. She apathetically evaluated the trails of blood and handprints left on the walls, some smudged, others leaving behind broken fingernails imbedded into the cracked plaster.

 _This place has seen better days…_

The old folk's home she and a select few were scavanging was in a poor shape. The walls told enough of the fate of their elderly residents, who in their old age and reduced locomotion had no escape from the horror of the undead.

"Maggie?" Samara whispered. She was cautios of waking up the resident walkers. She could see them swaying in blocked rooms, their shadows dancing across walls and dirtied windows.

"Over here."

The Native honed on the younger woman's voice and found her in the infirmary ward. Like everything else, the room was in dissaray and two bodies were left decomposing, one atop the other.

Maggie shook her head once she noticed the marshall's attention. They were dead dead.

Silently, both women began scrounging whatever was left intact. Medicine, bandages, some bottled waters. Samara shoved them all down her large rucksack and wondered what the farm girl was doing as she ignored bottles of pills.

"What are you looking for?"

Rustle of wood.

"A prosthetic leg for my dad." Maggie said as she opened a locker and grimaced. "He needs to start learnin' how to use one. He can't walk on crutches his entire life."

Understandable, thought Samara. The old man hopping around the prison wasn't that pretty of a sight. Besides, prostethics weren't that sought out these days. There was bound to be some left around, especially in an old folk's home.

A metaphorical light bulb lit atop the Native's head. A conversation from not too long ago.

 _Speaking of prostethics…_

"I'll help you look for a leg if you keep your eyes open for a back brace. It looks like a cross between a vest and a corset."

Maggie's brows rose curisouly. "My dad tell you about that?"

"Yeah, he thinks it'll help with the soreness." She really hoped it would.

The women began searching in comfortable silence. Apart from the occasional rustle of papers and the distant shuffle and woes of the undead there was no other sound to be heard.

Samara checked over her young companion. Maggie looked the same. It had been two weeks since her wedding and nothing seemed to be out of palce yet. The two lovebrids still walked around, their world narrowed down to just the two of them.

 _To be young and in love…_

"How's the married life treating you?"

The girl paused for a second before moving on, shrugging. "Just like any other day I guess. Nothin' much has really changed except for the ring on my finger."

"Good thing it hasn't. A lot of marriages fail once the ring comes into play."

"Did yours fail?"

The Native's lack of response and blankness gave pause to the fresh bride. It might not have been the best question to pose.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked that."

Samara's brow twitched. The girl's unknowing curiosity had made her heart do a painful leap.

"It did, but not because we got married." Samara sighed as she focused on some patient files instead of times past.

"…You ever think you'll get married again?" She tentatively asked.

Samara chuckled at her absurdity. "Hell no."

"What about love?" Maggie seemed to regain her curisoity now that the older woman hadn't clammed up. "Do you want to feel that again?"

This brought out an intensity from the former marshal. Like lazers scanning every inch of your body.

 _Does she know something or…_

But Maggie didn't. She neither looked like she was hiding something nor did she fidget deceptively. Besides, the girl was pretty straightforward with people. She wouldn't hide behind facades.

"I don't think I have that option anymore." Another sigh escaped her. Love was a dangerous teritory to venture into in these dark times.

"Why not?"

A dip in her brow. These invasive questions were starting to irritate her. "We're a little short on available men these days. Aren't you afraid of losing him? Of Glenn dying one day?" She turned the attention off her.

"Of course I am, but I also want to live and I can't do that if I'm constantly afraid." Maggie turned pensive as she stared in space with a forlorn look. "There is life to be made in this world. To make good memories and have happy times again. I'm choosin' to live at the best of my abilities instead of just livin' for the sake of it."

"Wouldn't it be just easier?"

"Yeah, but…" She forwned as she saw something only her eyes could see. Her tone lowered, softly and lovingly. "I don't wanna think of a life without Glenn. He means everythin' to me. Him and Beth and daddy. They're all I got left."

"Maggie…" Samara inhaled deeply. Her next words were harsh and bleak, but they had to be said. "There will be a day when those people that you hold dear will _die_. It's an inevitable fact." She accentuated her omnious words as she saw the girl recoil in denial. "We're all going to die and most likely not by natural causes. We can't afford to die peacefully anymore."

"…Why are you sayin' this?"

"Because you're a tough woman and I just want you to be prepared for when that happens. I don't want you to fall into despair like so many do. I know you love Glenn, but don't get _too_ attached. You lost most of your family, so you know grief. You know how to cope when the rest of your family will die." Maggie looked away, her face scrunching up in rememberance. "But Glenn…he means more to you at this point in your life, even more than your dad or sister. Don't glare at me. He does, even if you don't want to admit it." Samara sighed forlornly. "Love blinds us…Especially younger people."

"I know he will die one day…" A faint whisper, almost anticipating the horror to come. "They all will. I'm not an idiot nor am I delusional that we'll all live happily ever after, but…I don't want to think about it. When it's gonna happen, I'll deal with it then."

The strength in the girl's green eyes gave the marshal hope. "Just…don't ever give up. It's a slippery slope."

"I don't give up that easily." She gave a weak smile. "My daddy didn't raise me like that."

Samara mirrored the smile before she immersed herself back into her search. Her thoughts lazily swirled inside her head and she tried to purge them. They were of different times that she had no intention of reminiscinting right now.

But the question was…Could Samara ever love again?

She was doubtful. It was harder for her now to form that sort of attachement with the high mortality rate. It seemed like an unncessary effort for something that might not even last a week, so why bother. But the heart was a fickle thing. If it wanted something, it will beat to its own drum whenever you wanted it to or not.

Her thoughts drifted to the one person she shared euphoric twilights with. Could it ever happen? To be honest, it could. Samara couldn't control who she got attached to and who not, but she can choose to ignore or act on it.

Denial sounded like the wisest plan. Just in case.

"Is this it?"

The Native looked over the article Maggie held up. It was a worn out corset with shoulder straps that went underneath the armpits to connect to a full back and a wide belt that went across the stomach. The back had weighted padding to keep the spine straight.

"I think we hit the jackpot." Samara figured this was as good as she could get…despite the tiny spatter of blood on it. "Looks good and it's stiff enough."

Maggie narrowed her eyes dubiosuly. "Looks like bondage gear to me."

Blink.

"…And how would you know what one looks like?"

"It's the 2010's." She said matter of factly. "My dad may be old-fashioned, but I sure as hell ain't. We had internet at the farm."

Samara chuckled in good nature. _This girl…_

"I can see why Glenn fell for you."

Maggie grinned.

* * *

"Think this one would be good for the old man?"

Daryl and Rick inspected an artificial leg. It had cracks and teeth marks considering the corpse they got it off had been mangled to pieces. Literally the only thing left behind had been the prostethic.

"Better that than nothin'." Then Rick grimaced as he gingerly wrapped the leg in a blanket. "Course we gotta clean this thing up first. It reeks like Hell."

Daryl grunted in affirmation. It needed a whole _lot_ of cleaning. Just the months it had been left here in blood and guts must have permanently marked that stench into the material. Hershel will just have to get used to the faint mirasma of putrid meat.

He and Rick were in a separate part of the old folk's home. They had gathered some supplies and took down some walkers, but other than that it had been uneventful.

The hunter wondered what the women were doing. And by women, he meant just one sour ex-marshal. Deep down, he found that he worried about her. If she wasn't in his sight when they were outside the protective walls of the prison, he felt the need to check up on her and see if she was alright. Daryl knew she could handle herself and protect Maggie at the same time, but still…That nagging feeling wouldn't go away.

"You tryin' to burn holes in that wall?"

Daryl gave the former sheriff a strange look.

"You're glarin' in space."

The hunter shook his head and agitatedly ruffled his hair. The woman had a knack for making him feel on edge even when she wasn't around.

Blue eyes flitted about and landed on the sheriff's golden band. Daryl frowned in wonder. He still wore that thing after all this time? After everything that had happened between him and Lori?

Daryl subtetly examined his friend. He was shaggy looking and that constant intense expression of alertness and concern was plastered over his face. Even after finding the prison, the man's burden didn't seem to lift. Daryl took half of the burden on himself and Tyreese did his part, but still the former sheriff worried too much about everything and nothing.

It was times like these that Daryl was glad he wasn't the leader.

And Lori…now that was a powder keg that continuously burned. Daryl was still waiting for it to finally implode, but it seemed his friend was intent on keeping it lit. The hunter couldn't understand why. If he had been in his shoes, Daryl wouldn't have stayed, married or not. He wasn't the type to cheat and he expected the same in return. Trust was something he valued deeply. If he couldn't have that in a partner then there was no use in trying.

Why didn't the Indian wear her ring anymore?

It puzzled the hunter. He'd seen her sometimes slipping it back on only to later in the day see her without it. And she _never_ wore it while with him. To be honest, he prefered it that way. Seeing the ring had him on edge because it represented a dead man that she still kept alive inside. It also made him paranoid in thinking that she was ashamed of what she was doing with him and hid the ring as to not be reminded that, in a way, she was still married.

But it also made his heart pump a little bit more blood at the thought that maybe she was starting to forget and forge new connections. That traitorous slither of hope could be his downfall and he knew it. This was the marshall he was talking about after all.

"What?"

Startled, the hunter ripped his fixed gaze off the ring and stared into the inquisitive blue eyes of his companion. Damn the man and his sharp attention.

"How come you still wear it?" Daryl just blurted out without even thinking and internally cringed when he saw Rick frown deeply.

Rick looked over his ring as if just realizing he still wore it.

"I guess it's a habit…"

Blink.

She called it that, Daryl thought as he remembered Samara's conversation with Carol back at the farm. Why he remembered such a meager conversation was above his understanding, but he did. If she broke that habit, did that also mean she was over her husband?

"Kinda weird you askin' me that considerin' you never did before."

The look Rick was giving him was devoid of thought. A wall was erected before his eyes and Daryl had no way of peaking inside.

"Just curious." The hunter shrugged.

Rick's eyes narrowed fractionally. "You're never just curious. You usually mean somethin' by it otherwise you wouldn't have asked."

A sigh that sounded more like a growl escaped the hunter. "Forget it."

The man starting walking (running) away. He didn't need or want to be analyzed. He had just wanted an answer and he got it, but the tables have turned and now he was the one being interrogated.

Daryl would have gotten away if it hadn't been for this one question that had him freeze in his tracks and made his heart do a nosedive.

"This have anythin' to do with Samara?"

Careful not to show his rapidly growing alarm, Daryl masked his features behind that ever present frown. He hoped to God that Rick couldn't see through his defenses.

"Lately, you've been more _curious_ about her." Rick's tone was indifferent, as if talking of regular problems, but it only put Daryl more on edge. "Just wondering if it had anythin' to do with the fact that half the time she ain't wearin' hers."

 _Shit._

His breathing became deafening to his ears, his heartbeat sky rocketed and he could feel himself standing at the edge of a very deep and dark precipice.

It was suffocating,. He felt the walls caving in and he wanted to get out.

Rick hadn't changed in his posture. He patiently waited for an answer which just further spiked the hunter's anxiety.

"Took me a bit of time to understand what was wrong with the picture, but when I did it surprised me. She's pretty attached to it…or well, was."

"Maybe she just moved on."

The shrewd gaze Rick sent him bounced off Daryl's impenetrable wall. He wasn't going to find anything there.

They sat in silence for a few tense seconds, each measuring the truthfulness in each other's words, but when you deal with two people that efectivaly mastered in hiding themselves, it could prove a challenge.

"Good for her then." Rick finally broke the stalemate. "Carryin' around the dead ain't a healthy thing."

Daryl watched as the man moved on with the prosthetic leg, not a hitch in his step. Intense blue eyes remained cautiously glued to the man's back.

The tension was beginning to numb his pained muscles.

Daryl understood perfectly.

 _He's fishin'._

* * *

For once the prison sounded alive. Laughter, cheers and encouragements rang in the air, filling out the grave silence that usually pervaded their day to day life.

Hershel was trying out his new leg while the others watched on with huge smiles on their faces. He wobbled and tripped at first and refused his daughters help as he wanted to do this with his own strength. Despite the problems, Hershel was seconds away from crying in happiness. To be able to walk again without the use of crutches seemed like a faraway dream, but now it caught up to him and he was so eager to take up this challenge.

Samara smiled as the old man finally stood still on both legs without shaking.

The corset was finally on and it was uncomfortable as it squeezed her abdomen and back eliciting a low wave of pain, but Hershel said that it was normal and that she'll have to get used to the sensation. The Native didn't mind, after everything that had happened to her, this was a walk in the park.

Her gaze switched to the hunter that stood a short distance from the group. Behind his usual frown, he seemed lost in thought, his eyes not registering what was in front of him. He had remained unchanged since they returned from the hospice. It had been a subtle shift in mood, but Samara caught up on it. Whatever happened, it shook up the hunter.

"First a weddin' and now this. Good times are comin' back."

Startled, Samara's shoulders tensed before relaxing. It was Rick.

She gave him a quick side glance. "I wouldn't know."

" _Really_?"

Blink.

That sounded too…

Samara turned her gaze to the man, but he wasn't looking at her. His focus was downward. Following it, it landed on her ringless finger. Words couldn't desbride the short lived panic that surged in her chest. Quickly, she calmed that particular beast and resumed her oblivious state.

"My fingers are slimmer than before. The ring kept falling, so I took it off so I wouldn't lose it." She fluidly came up with a reason.

"Of _course_."

Samara glared. He was being sarcastic and she didn't appreciate it. Where was this coming from?

Her brain then did a doubletake. Daryl had been with Rick before his change in mood and now—

The Native's eyes narrowed defensively. What was he doing? Rick didn't seem angry or suspicious. He seemed his normal self, but the air between them was tense and anticipatory. Something was shifting in their dynamic.

"…Was it easy?"

She understood his inquery, but she didn't know what answer to give him.

"The only thing I can say is try it."

"Don't know if that's possible."

Samara caught on the momentary dejection before it faded. The man was still burdened by his marriage with Lori.

"You'll get used to the idea after a while." Samara crossed her arms as she returned her gaze to the others, specifically Daryl. Gone was his thoughtful air as he was now watching them pointedly. She could feel his edginess from this distance, scratching against her skin. "It feels like shedding off a burden."

A doubtfull huff escaped the sheriff. "Some things ain't that easy to just let go."

"Really?" She returned his gaze. "I thought yours was more of a problem, all things considered."

Like a knife she cut through, no shame in her words. They were beyond being considerate with one another, prefering the truth instead of false words. It was just how they worked best, without hindrances.

Rick sighed deeply, his mind visibly troubled. "Sometimes it is, but I'm hopin' one day it'll change."

"Hope dies last, huh..." Samara huffed. She was not one to judge, she went through the same process with her late husband after all. "Do you think you'll ever go back to what it used to be?"

This was a question she had never gotten the chance to answer for herself, but deep down she knew the answer. She just couldn't voice it because then it would become real and she'd rather have her fantasies.

"It just can't." Rick's response seem melancholic. "Too much has happened and some things can't be forgotten…but I'm tryin'."

"But is it _worth_ it?" Samara countered. Considering how things went down between him and Lori…It was harder to recuperate after a betrayal of that kind, when a baby and a death is involved. Samara was surprised he was still even talking to her.

Rick was silent, his blue eyes lost in the setting sun.

He won't answer, Samara thought. He wasn't obligated to either and she respected that. She knew that whenever he found his answer she was going to hear it, whether she wanted to or not.

"You still love her?"

The question brought the man out of his shell as he shook his head to dispel the haze. "I don't know if I do, or if it's just the memory of lovin' her that I cling on to."

"Yeah, I know the feeling." Samara sighed at her own recolections. "It's a tiresome dilemma."

The man hummed deeply in his throat, agreeing. With a crunch in gravel, he left her side, but not without one last piece of advice.

" _Whatever_ it is that brought out this 'change', I hope you know what you're doin'."

Samara's eyes never left his back as the distance grew. She then shifted her attention to the hunter, who was now chewing on the skin of his thumb, troubled. His eyes had never left their short meeting.

The Native's mind was a blur.

 _Does he already suspect?_


	28. And the Ball is Out of the Court

Samara puffed out a cloud of air.

It was early in the morning, the sun having just risen. She and Daryl were on the path towards the cage. Even after all this time, they still hadn't had any luck in catching one single animal (the walker didn't count) and Samara was of the thought that they never will.

Her mood had been dampened ever since yesterday. With the thought of her and Rick's conversation last night revolving around in her mind, there had been little respite. Even Daryl was tense. He barely spoke and he kept mangling the skin on his thumb, making the former marshal wonder if he still had meat on it.

"I think Rick knows." She dropped the bomb.

Daryl paused in his step and turned, his usual frown deeper than ever. The disturbance from than yesterday was even more pronounced.

"He say that?"

"No, but he's putting the pieces together."

Daryl cursed and kicked a fallen branch in frustration.

"Why are you so on edge about it?" She crossed her arms defensively. "You don't see me stressing."

"I don't want people to know my business." He practically glared furiously. "Especially Rick."

"Why?"

He looked at her penetratingly, as if Samara should be aware of the answer. Whatever he was thinknig she wasn't on the same wavelength.

The man scoffed before continuing on his way and Samara rolled her eyes at his vagueness. What, did he think Rick would get jealous?

 _Pfft._

"Look, it doesn't matter if he knows or not, or if the others know for that matter." Samara picked up a blade of grass and chewed on it. "Us screwing doesn't affect them personally, so they have nothing to comment about."

"You'd think…"

Samara frowned, but then slyly grinned.

"What, do you think Carol would get jealous?"

The hunter looked at her as if she were on crack, making Samara's grin grow.

"I always thought the old broad fancied you."

"You high again, Indian?" His voice even rose to an incredulous pitch. "The hell…"

"Oh come on." The marshal was seconds away from guffawing as the hunter's aggitation aggravated. "Those doe eyes she used to give you like you were her hick in shining armor. Probaly wanted some of that tough, sensitive redneck dick. Smells like love to me."

"You're out of your goddamn mind, you crazy squaw."

Samara chuckled as the man quickened his pace, but not before she caught a peak of rosy cheeks.

 _Someone's embarrased._

Their trip continued with Samara ocassionally snickering just to annoy the man, much to his chagrin. There was a light fog perminating the woods, adding an eerie atmosphere. But even with the added edge, Samara still felt a bizzare tranquility.

Would Rick really react badly to the discovery of her and Daryl's late night rendevouz? She couldn't see why. He himself had proclaimed that he held no such emotions for her, so she couldn't understand Daryl's worry. They were just friends.

"Son of a bitch…"

"What is it?" Samara rolled the blade of grass around her mouth, still musing on her thoughts. "Another walker?"

Daryl stepped out of the way and Samara saw it. Her full attention was captured as the blade fell out of her mouth in surprise.

It was a deer.

In the cage Daryl built.

—They _actually_ caught a deer.

With light steps they approached it. Samara looked over the creature in wonder. It was scared as it stared at them with charcoal, marble eyes. It's breath came out in short pants, dispersing in the fog. But what Samara found more fascinating was the deer's consitution.

"Is she…?"

"Yeah, she's pregnant." Daryl said as he crouched near the cage, his eyes on the inflated stomach of the deer. "By the looks of it she's probably a month or two away from givin' birth."

A small grin cracked the marshal's lips at the prospect of such a catch. "Can we be that lucky?"

They just caught two birds with one stone, so to say.

Samara crouched down next to Daryl, her wonder completely captured by the fragile looking creature. Her fingers passed through the chain fence and grazed the frightened deer's belly. Its fur was soft to the touch and warm, but she felt a shiver pass through it. The deer was frightened for its unborn fawn. A mother's deeply rooted instinct.

The Native's grin slowly morphed into a serene smile. It had been a long time since she touched a deer without predatory intent.

It was a pretty sigh—

Samara froze.

Daryl was touching her.

Rough fingers crazed her cheek as his thumb contured the curve in her smile. Samara's hackles rose. The feel of his rough pads sent shivers down her spine. Memories of late nights in a dimly lit room came to mind and sparked flames in the pit of her belly. His eyes were trained on her smile that was now slowly diminishing, but still he was enraptured. His thumb gently caressed her lower lip and before she could stop him, the man turned her face towards him and locked lips.

As much as Samara wanted to push him away she gave in into his small show of affection. Her tongue slid across his languidly and the man seemed pleased by her cooperation, prompting him to cup the back of her head and deepen the kiss.

Samara's teeth came into play and she devilishly bit his tongue. His pace was too slow for her taste and she wanted that passion and anger that he usually brought forth. But the man kept his pace and urged her to slow down. Samara growled at his different approach and jumped him. Pushing him to the forest floor, she climbed atop him and began kissing him more furiosuly. Her fingers raked over his chest making the man hiss and buck into her. That smile that prompted all this was long gone, replaced with a rogueish grin.

The hunter mustn't have liked it because again he tried to slow the marshal down. She was going for a fast quickie in the middle of the forest, but he wouldn't let her. He caught her wandering hands that had already started working on his belt and caught them in his, forcing them away. His kiss lost some of that scorching ardor and became gentle again, taking his time to savor it.

The Native frowned. He was acting different. Too affectionate and it bothered her. She wanted this to stop and get away from that tiny flutter in her heart.

She hated it…

With mild reluctance she ended the kiss and tried to raise herself off him, but arms trapped her and her world turned. Daryl was now atop her, with her arms caged beside her head and he was still kissing her with that strange intensity.

This was no longer enjoyable. This was too… _loving_.

 _Oh Gods…_

This time, Samara bit him enough to draw blood, snapping the man out of his haze for the moment. Taking advantage of this little gap in consciousness, the Native snapped at him roughly.

"Get off. Now!"

There was no room for questioning her decision.

Despite his labored breath, Daryl regained his mind as the woman's cold tone acted like a bucket of ice over his heated body. She was glaring at him and the man realized that he had stepped out of line.

Daryl slowly disentagled from her and rose to his feet. Samara swore she heard a dissapointed sight, but it must've been just his panting breath. She didn't want to think otherwise.

Rising to her feet, Samara dusted herself of dirt and leaves, avoiding his gaze. What he did went against their agreement. It wasn't supposed to be tender or caring. It was just sex and Samara wanted to keep it that way. Nothing good would come out of it growing into something _more_.

The man returned his attention to the cage, but Samara could see his stiff posture. Despite the fright she just received, she still smirked as she knew the motive.

His movements weren't the only things that went rigid, she thought wittily.

Samara cleared her throat, but her voice still came out a bit too husky. "So, how do we do this? We tranq her and drag her back to the prison?"

The best thing to do in this awkward situation was pretened that the last few minutes had never happened, otherwise she'll be tempted to ask him certain invasive questions wich would result in his shut down and they could forget about the deer.

They _had_ to get the animal back at the prison.

"No, it'll affect the fawn. I ain't riskin' killin' them." Daryl still wouldn't look at her, prefering to busy himself with his crossbow. "We'll just have to herd her all the way back."

"You do realize she's likely to attack us once we open that cage."

"Yeah."

Daryl placed his weapon on the ground along with anything heavy he carried. He took out of his backpack a harness he made just for this eventuality. It wasn't anything special, just something to muzzle the deer and leash it.

"I'm gonna open that cage and catch her in a headlock. She's gonna buck like crazy, but I need you to ignore that and put this around her neck and snout. It's gonna keep her head wrapped tight and keep her from callin' out. We don't need her buck out here, chargin' on us."

Releaving herself of her own heavy weights, Samara rolled her sleeves for the strenuous job awaiting her.

"Have you ever wrestled a deer before?"

"Once."

A dark brow rose insolently. "Who won?"

Daryl gave her a quick piercing look, but opted to keep his comments to himself. They had work ahead.

The hunter took a steady breath and opened the cage. The deer, taking a chance, bolted out and straight into Daryl arms. Grabbing it by the neck, he wrestled the creature to the ground and kept it down as hard as he could. The deer bucked and kicked nearly throwing the man off him.

"Do it!"

Samara snapped out of her awe and jumped the deer, wrapping the harness around the deer's neck and head. It wasn't as easy as it sounded, as the animal threw its head every direction to avoid the leather straps. Samara's frustration grew as the animal bit the sleeve of her jacket and actually ripped it, but in the end she managed to leash it.

Daryl unwrapped his arms from the deer and the poor thing thought this was her chance for freedom and took flight. Its run for freedom came to an abrupt end as Samara pulled on the cord and made the deer slide into the dirt.

This is agitating the deer far too much, Samara thought as she watched the thing struggle while her own arms shook from the force the animal was using. Daryl rose to his feet and took hold of the strap and with Samara they held the animal until it finally lost what little strength it still had. It had already been weakened by its stay in the cage and the flight instinct was speeding up the process.

It took a while for the deer to finally stop and Samara's arms were numb from the strain. Daryl gave the marshal control as he rummaged through his backpack and took out a bag full of wheat. Despite the chilly morning, sweat was pouring down his skin.

Samara slowly watched as the man approached the deer, never within touching distance. At first, he threw the wheat at its feet and despite its initial suspicion the deer finally nibbled from the offered food. It was starving and had little options.

With a tired breath, Samara crouched to the ground still cautious of the deer regaining some miracle strength and bolting. The sight of Daryl trying to calm down the deer was a fascinating thing to see. He was so careful of frightening her that his movements seemed almost tender. Like he was taking care of an infant.

Samara counted an hour before Daryl got within touching range of the deer, and the animal itself ate from his palm. The marshal was starting to lose patience, but the hunter was at peace, undisturbed by the slow pace. It was a process and he had already been through it.

Daryl slowly rose to his feet and backed away cautiously, all the while taking hold of the cord. He pulled on it gently with the grain in hand, luring the deer. To Samara's surprise, the creature actually followed. Steadily and carefully, but it followed the offered food.

Samara picked up the discarded weapons and baggage and led the way towards the prison. Their journey wasn't easy, the deer trying several times to escape their grasp and frying Samara's already frazzled nerves. Several times she reached for her gun, but Daryl's glare put a stop to her impulses.

All in all, it had been a grueling task bringing the deer back to the prison.

Daryl was the one left to lead the deer into the pen, despite its persistent refusal. Samara leaned against the fence and breathed in deeply. She was _exhausted_. This whole ordeal had tired her out completely, physically and mentally and not all of it was the deer's fault.

Her eyes slid over her shoulder to the man now attaching the cord to a chain inside the covered bedding area. They had agreed not to give free reigns to the deer, at least until it got used to them. Right now it would just be a task entering the pen as they would always have to catch the flighty animal. It was best if they kept it grounded for the moment.

The morning sun had a beautiful effect as it lightly blinded her vision. She could ony see the hunter's darkened silhouette as he led the deer, their breaths coming out in white clouds. It reminded her of movie scenes form westerns where the cowboy rode against the setting sun, only his black form visible.

It made the woman smile lightly.

But just as the smile came, it dissapeared. She pushed off the fence and began walking towards the prison. She needed some rest and she still hadn't forgotten about Daryl's slip. That distance became a necessaty right now.

She didn't look back once, despite Daryl calling her out.

* * *

Daryl sighed.

It was an hour passed midnight already and the hunter was bored. He was on watch duty and still had hours until his change in shift. There was nothing interesting happening, as only the crickets were heard in the distance. At least this way Daryl knew there were no walkers nearby, otherwise his tiny singing neighbours would have gone mute.

The others had been ecstatic once they saw the new addition to the prison grounds. Waking up to such a beautiful sight must have given them an extra dose of endorphins that left them walking on clouds throughout the day. Beth especially had been the happiest. She hung around the deer pen as long as she could, trying to entice the deer with grains to approach her. She hadn't been lucky, but it didn't seem to bother her.

It will take some time for the deer to adapt to its new home. For now, Daryl and Hershel were the only ones allowed to enter the pen since neither were strangers when it came to animals.

Daryl reclined in his seat, his mood souring. The events that led to the deer's appearance at the prison had left him mentally exhausted. It took just one slip to act like a lovesick idiot in front of the Indian and he wanted to punch himself for it.

—It was that damned smile.

She had looked so happy that he hadn't been able to restrain himself. He had wanted some of that joy to rub off on him and he did it in the worst way possible, exposing a more private part of him and he had seen her reaction to it. She had wanted to be as far away from him as possible.

Daryl groaned. Why did he keep doing this to himself? Torturing himself with thoughts he shouldn't have and expectations that will never come to pass?

He frowned deeply. What did he expect?

—Love?

No, he didn't love her, but he cared about her more than he wanted to admit. He was in a strange conundrum. He felt like he was standing in the middle of a crossroad with no signs to indicate where those roads led. Samara wasn't any help. She kept her thoughts and feelings to herself, no intent of sharing with him.

But deep down he knew the woman harbored no fondness for him. At least not the same as him. He was swimming in a storm without a paddle with Samara safetly on shore, watching him struggle to get to safety.

But then the image of an absent ring kept popping up in his mind and maybe, just maybe, there was something more hidden behind those layers of tough skin.

Daryl was disturbed out of his thoughts by the echo of steps ascending. He whrilled around with the chair and waited for the person to appear, crossbow ready to fire. He was still a cautious man, after all.

The door opened with a rusty croak and in came the devil of his thoughts.

Samara's eyes were fixated on him and something about their intensity had his skin pucker. Without a word the woman walked up to him and to his surprise kissed him fervently. Her tongue pried open his lips and slipped inside his mouth, wiggling around like a worm on a hook.

"What—" He tried to free his mouth from the assault, but the woman bit his lower lip in punishement.

"Don't talk." She licked the bead of blood that pooled. "I want to finish what you started."

Daryl was at a loss as the woman attacked him again with her warm, wet mouth. Not that he was complaining. No, Daryl let her have her way as her womanly wiles were too hard to resist. His hands gripped her waist as she comfortably settled in his lap and squeezed. Samara responded with a growl deep in her throat as she nibbled on the sensitive skin of his neck. She never bit, always careful of leaving any marks that might arouse suspicion. Not for her sake, but his.

Daryl felt an electric shock go straight to his groin as the Indian's hands slithered underneath his top and fingernails raked across his chest and stomach sensually. She knew he _loved_ that feeling, craved it even. Upon discovering this little weakness of his she made it a point to abuse it at every oportunity just to drive him mad with hunger.

And it was working.

He pushed her head into his, raveshing her mouth hungrily. His free hand reciprocated her gesture and grabbed her breast, squeezing it lovingly harsh…just the way she liked. Samara had an aversion to softness and taking things slow. A show of emotion would be like being on the receiving end of a cattle proder. Rough and reckless, passionate and furious—these were the only adjectives he could describe her way of having sex.

It was _fucking_ , to put it in simple words. No more, no less.

Her pelvis grinded against his and Daryl hissed. He was already hard and she was torturing him with her girating hips. The devilish smirk plastered over her lips was the most obvious indicator. Not one to be upstaged, Daryl grabbed a fistfull of her locks and bucked into her while tugging on her hair. Samara let out a breathy moan as her head was pulled back harshly. The glare she sent his way was a delicious combination of lust and anger. This was the the look she gave before she started to rip his clothes off. It only took a bit of roughness to trigger her.

—And she did.

Like claws, her hands dug into his pants, practically ripping his belt and zipper off.

"Wait." By luck, some sense of sobriety crawled into Daryl's sex-fogged head and poked him in the brain.

The woman either didn't hear him or she simply ignored him as she launched herself into his boxers.

"Sama—" Daryl groaned deep in his throat as he felt willowy fingers grab him tightly. He bucked into her again as his hands once again found their place on her hips. His fingernails dug into her skin, leaving crescent moons behind.

Again the haze won and Daryl bit her nipple through the cloth making the woman hiss like a cobra. He sucked on the little hardened bud eliciting sweet, sweet sounds from the woman. For a moment she even lost her focus as her fingers went lax around him, but he reminded her by thrusting into her hand. Samara understood his urgency and stiffened her fingers following the rhythm of his thrusts.

Daryl moaned into her shirt at the pangs of pleasure he was experiencing. The woman learned in a short period of time just how to manipulate him to become putty in her hands. But as her free hand settled on his cheek he was reminded again that he couldn't feel the golden ring's coolness.

As if a bucket of ice cold water poured over his head, Daryl let go of her breast and caught her hand, even though his body's needs protested against such actions.

"Stop for a moment."

This time the woman purposely ignored him and continued with her other hand while her lips mauled his.

"Dammi—" Daryl swallowed his words as the woman attacked him like a predator never once giving him a break.

He would have to be more harsh then.

"Will you stop!" The hunter caught her by the upper arms and practically ripped her off him.

Despite the haze clouding her sight and her heaving chest, Samara rasped back in annoyance.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" She frowned as she licked her moist lips. "I know you don't want out of this. I can feel you through your jeans, you're hard as a rock."

"Just stop for a minute." He breathed out harshly as he flopped back in his seat, exhausted.

The woman atop him watched him analytically. Whatever she was thinking he couldn't guess. There was a shine to her eyes as if there were scenarios after scenarios flashing before her.

"What do you want, Daryl?" She spoke softly, but clearly. Daryl could even detect a faint sense of reluctance. "Do you want to cuddle with me? To whisper sweet nothings and hold me?" She couldn't surpress her grimace. "Do you want to make _love_ to me?"

"No, just…" Daryl sighed and ran his palms over his face in frustration. What could he tell her that wouldn't have her running for the hills? He knew that if he showed her even a smidgen of emotion, she would break off whatever this reccuring affair.

Besides, even he himself had no idea what he wanted from her.

His eyes fell over the hand that lightly gripped his arm. It was barren of any jewelry and it was then that a curiosity from long ago made itself aware.

"Tell me about him."

"Who?"

"Your husband."

She hid it well, the shock she received from his question. The only indication that he did destabilize her was a twitch in her fingers.

"Why would you want to know that?"

Daryl shrugged. "Just do."

Actually, he really was interested in what kind of man had Samara's husband been. Why had he married her, how had he breached that protective shell of hers…Had he loved her with all his heart or had it been a convenience?

Samara slipped away from his lap and settled against the defunct camera station. She crossed her arms and regarded him cagely. Altough her breath was still ragged and her cheeks flush, there was no trace of lust anymore, only taciturnity. The Indian seemed torn between ansering and leaving the premisses.

An intense stalemate settled over them as they both assessed each other. Daryl wouldn't back down from his question. He wanted to know and Samara seemed intent on not satisfying his curiosity.

But it was Samara who tore her eyes away first.

"John was West Virginia's state lawyer, that's how we met." She didn't look at him. "Marshal and lawyers corroborated on many occasions, just so happens I did the most with John. Two years later, we got married and have been for four years before the virus hit."

"Was he good to you?"

Samara turned so rapidly that Daryl almost thought her neck would snap.

"What's brought this up?" She said after her visible surprise subsided. "You can't be asking me this on a whim."

"Just wanted to know why you never wear the ring with me." It was partially the truth.

"Does it bother you that much?"

He shrugged again. "Just strange seein' you without it after all this time."

"Don't look at my hand then."

Dull silence.

Samara stewed in whatever emotions he awoke and Daryl still wasn't content. He didn't know much about her life before they met and he now wanted to know more. It was like a dam had burst open.

"Did you two ever have kids?"

The air seemed to drop below zero and the Indian's expression along with it. There was a cornucopia of emotions morphing her face, but the most prominent was terrified awe.

"First night, you mentioned you couldn't get pregnant _again_."

"I…" Samara was at a loss for words as her lips trembled. Her eyes settled on the door and Daryl knew she would bolt. Proven right as in the next moment she was rapidly walking towards it.

Not wasting time, Daryl ran after her and pushed the door closed just as she was opening it. Not her scathing glare nor a punch to the face would move him.

Samara seemed on the verge of bolting out the window in her desparation to get away, but she remained rooted before him, breathing heavily. Daryl was almost worried she would slip into a panic attack.

The woman opened her mouth to speak, but closed it unable to utter a word. She cleared her throat and massaged her tense jaw as some of that harshness slipped back into her features.

"I don't want to talk about this, Daryl." Her voice was carved from stone. "I came here to relax, not get interrogated."

This was as far as he could push her. Daryl knew that if he prodded her further the threat of physical violence would become a reality, and he had no wish for it to escalate towards that. For now, he settled for this small bits of her.

"Alright. Not gonna ask that again."

Samara didn't seem convinced.

"That's another skeletons that I'd rather not take out of the closet," Her eyes narrowed further. "or would you rather show me what's on your back?"

Daryl's lips pursed. He'd rather avoid that entirely.

The woman sighed heavily. She settled against the wall beside him and slid down, ignoring the cold floor. Whatever thoughts of wild ardour she came here with flew out the window some time ago. Now, there were only painful memories left in a cold, barren room.

The hunter joined the woman on the floor at a reasonable distance. Right now, he doubted she wanted to be near him.

"You wanna know what I did before the virus?" He asked in a low voice, his gaze straight. His mind was elsewhere, in times past. "I didn't have a stable job or nothin'. Me and Merle, we just traveled from place to place, never lingerin' too long. Did what we could to get by and it wasn't always safe or legal."

"Nomads?"

He scoffed. "That's one word nobody called us." Vagabonds. Trash. Rednecks. Criminals. Those were the words usually associated with them. Daryl couldn't really dispute them since they hadn't exactly been model citizen or even close to what passed for normal. They had been the dregs of society, the ones you avert your eyes from when passing by, the ones mothers shielded their children from. "I didn't go on vacations or get Christmas or birthday presents or have family dinners. My dad was a nobody and my moms died a long time ago. Merle was gone most of the time so I had to learn everythin' on my own."

His entire life had been a survival game. No room for sympathy or affection, instead he had to grow by nature's hardships. He had to experience what was more cruel in life, but he won the game. He was here, alive. Maybe not exactly whole, but he was still breathing.

Daryl was amost reluctant to see the woman's reaction to his confession. He knew the usual faces women made when they realized they were dealing with a vagrant, but Samara…

"At least you ain't pityin' me."

"You don't strike me as the kind of man who would appreciate it."

"I ain't, but people usually get the wrong idea and think I'm some neglected mutt. That's the reason I don't talk about myself. I don't want anyone's sympathy or charity. I got by without anyone's help which is better than grown ass men that still held on to their mother's aprons even after they grew up."

She snorted. "Yeah, I met a guy like that once. His mom threw ice cold water on me. Said I was a harlot come to take her 'baby' away."

The crook of his lips raised faintly in amusement.

"You never had a wife, did you?"

Again the urge to laugh tickled his throat. "Like I said, I moved from one place to another. The life I had wasn't suited for a girlfriend or a wife. Besides, I never looked for anyone to stay with longer than a night. Didn't seem worth it."

This time, there had been a distortion in her expression. It had been minute and Daryl had been slow to catch it, but he knew that whatever thought crossed her mind had an effect on her.

"You must have a type, though…" Samara spoke after a short silence. Her eyes narrowed in thought as she looked on through him. "I think you like the sweet ones. The ones you can protect. That bright light in the dark."

Daryl shook his head. He knew what she was talking about.

"There was a girl in my hometown. We were both in high school and she was smart. Real smart, but she was a poor judge of character. She took a shine to me and I let her because she was different. She wasn't like the tramps or trailer girls I knew, she was decent with barely any experience. She was somethin' _new_ to me." He could still vividly remember her. Straw blonde hair, hazel eyes and freckles. She hadn't exactly been beautiful, but she had been pretty in a bookworm sort of way. She had been his first crush. "I took her huntin' with me one day, thought that would impress her. Not even an hour into the woods, she sprained her ankle. She started cryin' and I didn't know what to do so I yelled. Not a good idea on my part. She just started bawlin' even worse so I carried her back to town because I didn't know what else to do."

That had been a horrible day for him. He had been young and the concept of females had been a novelty. She had been the first girl to approach him without fear.

"What happened after?"

 _The usual…_

"Her daddy accused me that I hurt her and I spent a night in the jailhouse." He scoffed as he leaned his head against the cool wall. "That was the last time I talked to her."

"She never tried to approach you again?"

"Nope. Think her daddy told her off. It was best."

In the end, they had been polar opposites. They could have never worked.

—It _had_ been the best.

"And what happened to her?"

"Like I said, she was a poor judge. Left pregnant by some dumbass, married him and never got the chance to leave and go to college like she wanted. She became just another broken dream." He remembered seeing her once, how unhappy she looked. That shine that she used to have in her eyes was gone, replaced with exhaustion and misery. "The only thing I could think of was that could've been me. I could have gotten her pregnant and got stuck in some unhappy life with a sad woman and an unwanted baby. The sweet ones ain't worth the trouble."

"So then who?"

Daryl wondered. Women like that girl he had no interest in, but neither were women like Samara. Somewhere in between was probably the most idealic, but he couldn't be picky these days. Well…not like he had been before. If a woman wanted to sleep with him and he found her pleasant enough, he'd go for it, no questions asked.

"I ain't got no type."

There was a moment of silence after, as if a storm had passed and they were just waiting for the last drops of rain to fall. Daryl felt like falling into a trance as the silence of the room was ecompasing. Only their muted breaths could be heard and the hunter listened intently to her breathing.

Rustle.

He felt a hand on his cheek and a warm gust pass over his cheek. Samara was close and she was watching him intently. Her thumb softly carressed the corner of his mouth and Daryl could see her eyes linger on his lips. He knew what she wanted, what she initially came here for.

He grabbed her by the waist and moved her onto his lap, grinding against her slowly. Samara's lashes fluttered and her breath deepened.

Daryl wasn't about to disappoint her a second time.

* * *

"You're enjoying this."

Samara watched the man from the protected side of the deer pen. Daryl was feeding the soon-to-be mother, not even minding the early morning chill.

"It's a change of pace. I'm used to killin' them, not herdin' them."

"The times are a changin'." Samara mused whimsically.

She had stayed with him throughout the night, enjoying his body and warmth at every oportunity. But Samara's fun came to an end once the sun peaked from behind the horizon, signaling the start of a new day. She had initially wanted to return to her cell, but Daryl indirectly asked her to join him in this endeavour.

She obliged.

"You wanna try?"

Samara raised a brow at his offer. "My dislike of animals extends past dogs and horses to pretty much all of them. Except fish. I don't think I have anything against fish."

Daryl snorted as he continued in his task.

"My brother had fish once. 'Course that didn't last long. He passed them off to me once he got enrolled in the army, but I was young and forgot to feed them. They didn't last long and I got a kick in the ass for the trouble."

Samara wasn't blind to the barely perceptible smile that graced the man's lips. He seemed lost in his memories, nostalgia captivating him entirely.

She wondered…This brother of his—Merle, was it?

"Your brother…" If she remembered correctly, his brother was dead. "Why do you sometimes talk about him like he's still alive?"

"He is."

"How do you know?"

"I just do. Until I see proof of his death, I ain't never gonna believe it."

Samara's brows furrowed. To have such faith in someone's uncertain fate was unfathomable to her. From what she remembered his brother had little chances of surviving Atlanta minus a hand.

A chill ran over her spine. Something about that image struck a cord in her and she didn't know why. She hadn't known this Merle, he was nobody to her…so then, why were her internal alarms blearing silently?

This wasn't the first time she experienced this cold panic. The first being a few days ago in the warden's office. It had felt like a bucket of cold water, but she had no idea for what reason. She hated this feeling, like she was on the verge of a precipice and the answer stood at the bottom of it. She just had to jump to reveal the truth.

"What was he like?" Samara asked despite the feeling of dread that seized her. Something _really_ wasn't right. "From T-Dog's stories he was a bonafide asshole."

Daryl sighed, but didn't retaliate. "I ain't gonna make excuses for him 'cause I know him far longer than anyone. He has his reasons for bein' how he is."

"Really? You actually need a reason to be a cliché redneck? I thought that was just an excuse to be a racist."

"Merle can be a handful at times, but there is still some good in him. People just can't see it because of his temper." His blue gaze found hers, probing deeply. "I wasn't any much different than him, you know. If I can change so can he."

 _Why do I doubt that?_

Something was definitely _wrong_. The more Daryl talked about his sibling the more that ice cold panic grew. Why did his name provoke such a reaction? Her stomach churnned like she wanted to vomit out of stress. She picked her brain apart because there was something hidden there that had to come to light and relieve her of these clawing doubts.

What was—

Merle.

Her breath hitched.

There was a prickling sound increasing in her ears. The kind of static heard in defunct TV's.

Memories of not long past came to life.

 _"He cut off his own hand?"_

Thump.

Her heart thudded against her chest like a war drum, visibly shaking her.

" _My name's Jackson and Merle was the one that found you."_

Thump-thump.

Time stood still. Samara looked over Daryl's features and found the same blue eyes as the man trying to push her off the road. The man that chased them like animals. That tried to kill them.

 _Oh Gods…_

The high-pitched sound was deafening.

 _This isn't real. No fucking way could this happen._

Samara felt bile burn her throat. She wanted to puke, to scream, to shoot something. How could she had been so blind, so stupid? It wasn't like Merle was such a common name to forget. And the hand…That should have been the most obvious sign.

Metal-hand guy was Merle. Daryl's _brother_ , Merle.

 _Oh fuck…_

Samara looked horrified at the oblivious Daryl peacefully feeding the deer.

 _I killed Daryl's brother._

* * *

Michonne woke up from her slumber with her katana halfway out when her vision cleared enough to identify the intruder. It wasn't a walker or an enemy, it was Samara.

"Samara, what are you doing here?" Michonne grumbled as she slid the katana back in its scabard. It was chilly in the prison. What time was it? Better yet, where was Tyreese? His side was barely warm.

"I need to talk to you." Her voice trembled with choked emotion. "Right _now_."

The sword-wielder took a closer look. Samara wasn't fidgeting from the morning cool air. She was in full blown panic—pupils dilated, eyes wide, her feet moved without pause and her hands shook.

Despite the tiny voice in her head telling her that it was too early to deal with this kind of crap, Michonne forced herself to be fully conscious. Whatever shook Samara so badly warented her attention.

"What is it?"

"Do you remember metal-hand guy?"

Michonne nodded.

"Do you remember his name?"

Now here, Michonne had to concentrate. To be truthfull, she barely remembered, but she knew it started with an M. "Michael, Merlin. Something like that."

Samara seemed to gag. "…Merle?"

Now that she thought better— "Yeah, that was it."

That seemed to set off the Native. Immediately Michonne saw the change—she started hiperventileating and pacing like a mad woman.

"Oh fuck…" Samara gripped her hair in despair, her face contorted hauntingly. "Fuck!"

"Stop yelling. I barely woke up." Michonne tried to calm down the agitated woman. "Why are you thinking about that asshole all of the sudden?"

"He's Daryl's brother."

Silence.

The cogs turned.

"…What?"

"Merle is Daryl's fucking _brother_!" Samara hissed, her eyes widening further. "It just dawned on me why that fucking name has been nagging at my brain for so long. We fucking killed Merle Dixon and I'm sleeping with his brother!"

Samara began recounting the story T-Dog told her a long time ago. About Atlanta and the hick's incarceration atop a building and the remnant left behind.

At the end, Michonne ran her palms over her face, suddenly more awake than ever. She did not expect this to fall in her lap at first light. She wasn't prepared for this kind of discovery.

"This is bad." Michonne whispered cooly. "This could ruin everything."

"This will destroy _him_. Daryl still thinks his brother is alive somewhere." Samara fell on the matress her head in her hands. "Oh Gods, what the hell am I supposed to do, Michonne?"

It was obvious for the sword-wielder.

"You can't tell him."

Samara shook her head. "I have to. That's his only family."

"And his only family tried to kill us. It was self-defense, nothing more." The woman narrowed her eyes at the memory. Even with the discovery of Daryl's relation to metal-hand, it still didn't move Michonne. "He had it coming."

"It doesn't matter, Michonne. His blood is still on our hands. I have to. It's the _right_ thing to do."

"Fuck the right thing." Michonne hissed coldly. What Samara was saying was ludacris. "We have to think about ourselves here."

Samara gazed at her like she grew a second head.

Michonne took a deep breath to calm herself and spoke evenly. This wasn't the moment to rile the marshal up. She needed to manage this situation as quickly and quietly as possible. Michonne herself was implicated in the redneck's death. Tyreese might not be so pleased to find out about this, even if it didn't directly affect him, but Daryl was his friend so there were chances.

"Look, normally I would agree with you." Michonne looked Samara straigh in the eye with softness. Her friend was moments from ripping her hair out in distress. She seemed so lost that it rubbed the sword-wielder the wrong way. "Telling the archer that his brother is dead is the right thing to do, but doing the right thing doesn't always mean that it's the good thing. This is one of those moments. Think about it rationally—what good will come out of this? Daryl will shut down entirely, he will _never_ forgive you and you'll go back to ostracizing yourself." She knew Samara's behaviour too well not to predict what she will do. She will go back to her old irate self. "It will just destroy lives. Let the hunter keep his illusions. This way no one gets hurt."

It was cruel what she was suggesting, but in this instant there was no other option left.

"This is fucked up, Michonne." Samara croaked after a few minutes of heavy silence.

"I agree." She placed a calming hand on the tense woman's shoulder. "Just stay cool and treat the incident as before. Metal hand guy was just another asshole hillbilly that tried to kill us. Nothing more."

 _Please, Samara, for all our sakes._

Samara placed her hand over her mouth and Michonne could see the pain in her eyes and she knew…it wasn't for her, but for Daryl. She was in despair for _him_.

 _The times are changing, indeed._

"I don't know if I can."

Michonne breathed in deeply. The former marshal was a lot of things, but she still held a sense of honour, even if at times it was crooked. Keeping silent this time was probably killing her internally.

"Don't do anything rash, Samara." The sword-wielder offered one last piece of advice. She couldn't restrain the woman, but she could at least persuade her into doing the right thing for them as grotesque and immoral as it was. "Think on it first then decide. If you still want to tell him then I can't stop you, but know the consequences."

Samara just buried her head in her hands at a loss.

* * *

 _ **Foot Note:**_ So, the jig is up. Samara finally remembered and connected the dots and she's got a hell of a problem on her hands. Will she or won't she tell dear old Daryl?

And Daryl…he's falling deeper into the rabbit hole. But when you fall eventually you hit ground.


	29. Stay Frosty

Hershel was talking, but Daryl barely heard him. His voice was nothing more than a distant buzz in his mind. His thoughts were plagued by a different person altogether.

He'd barely seen hide or hair of the Indian for four days now.

Her behaviour was odd, turning a cold shoulder whenever he was near or tried to speak with her. She wouldn't even look at him and even when she did, it was with a familiar coldness.

Daryl was beginning to think that she changed her mind. That she had enough of their meetings or grew bored with them and was moving on to something better. Maybe to someone else. Maybe to Ri—

 _Stop._

Thinking irrationally like that will just anger him. He wasn't a woman to act like some jealous harpy. If Samara wanted to call it quits then he wasn't about to stop her. It would be too suspicious if he did try and he was trying to stay under the radar.

Daryl sighed. This was exhausting.

"She's alright. Still a bit spooked, but otherwise healthy." Hershel's joyous voice brought the hunter our of his stupor. He was gently patting the deer's neck as it ate out of his hand. The old man had a strange way with animals. "The skin around her neck's healin' up nice. You were right; she's about a month away from birthin' and from what I can tell she's carryin' two. I have to say, you're not makin' my life any easier." The farmer smiled fondly. "Now I have two pregnant females on my hands. A dangerous combination."

Daryl nodded in understanding. "I'll help you when the time is due with her."

"I'd appreciate it, but have you ever assisted at an animal birth?"

"No."

"My daughters have. They'll be all the help I need if complications arise. Beth has also volunteered to take care of the deer. She's been edgy these past few months. Says she wants to do more, but I can't let her go out there on runs and she doesn't really seem to be happy to work on the garden. I think the deer might be just what she needs."

Daryl nodded again, only this time distractedly. His mind was yet again far away.

"Are you alright, Daryl?" Hershel wasn't blind to the younger man's troubled state. "You appear different. Sullen, if I may say."

"I'm _fine_." He said through gritted teeth.

"I wasn't accusin' you, quite the opposite. For the past few weeks you seemed content, especially when you were around Samara, but not anymore."

Like a shower of ice, Daryl froze. He could feel his heart in his throat, beating wildly. Panic swelled.

"I know what longin' looks like, son." There was a light in the man's eyes that kept Daryl from hiding the truth. "You do a good job of hidin' it, but you forget I'm old. I've lived through such experiences."

"Hershel—"

"I understand if you don't want to talk, but I'm here whenever you want to vent or clear your head."

Daryl pursed his lips. When or how Hershel figured it out was inconsequential. As long as he hadn't spread it around, Daryl was not worried. The old man didn't know the full nature of their relationship, but only guessed at it.

"We…have a deal." Daryl found himself talking without filter. The words just rolled out of his mouth unwillingly. "Nothin' emotional just physical."

"But it ain't just physical for you, is it?"

Daryl sighed deeply and shook his head. No, it wasn't anymore. He didn't know when it transitioned from a fantasy to actual attachement. A week? A month? Or maybe even longer…before reuniting again. The hunter wasn't sure and maybe it was better he didn't. He still felt like it was all madness.

"Does she know?"

"I think she's startin' to. Not like I've been subtle about it. Probably why she's been distant these past few days." Daryl raked his scalp in sheer fatigue. "I sometimes ask myself if it even matters if she knows."

"It does, trust me." Hershel smiled nostalgically. "My first wife, she was a beautiful woman. The love of my life. Too bad that at first she didn't think the same. Almost lost her to some other man, but I won her over in the end. I was stability, loyalty and a friend. She realized that before it was too late, before she eloped with some man she barely knew out of sheer passion. A life chasin' adventures and shiftin' desires is a tiresome life. She would have eventually realized this too late if she had left." The man chuckled fondly. "Hell, I actually fought the guy for her. Ended up with a broken nose, too. She thought I was stupid for gettin' in a fight, but I knew she was glad I did it."

Daryl was silent. He's never felt that sort of pull towards a person, to be capable of going to the ends of the earth for.

"Can I ask you somethin'?" Daryl patted the deer's head unconsciously. The animal looked him in the eye, unafraid of his touch, but there was nothing in those dark, marble eyes he could discern. They were vacant to him. "How did you know you were in love?"

"It's different for all of us. It just clicked one day. I was helping her out with her father's garden when she started humming this song. I just fell in love right then and there. She was all dirty from the soil, with her hair lookin' like a rat's nest, but to me she was the most loveliest creature on the face of God's green earth. I felt like my heart would burst out of sheer happiness. There was nothin' more important at that moment than her. She was all I could see, all I could hear." He sighed forlornly. "I wanted us to never be apart, but God had other plan's it seems."

Daryl listened intently to the older man's recollections. His words were so loving and pure that they hurt. To be able to feel something like that seemed dreamlike. A thing of stories.

"I don't feel what you just described." That was the truth. Not now, not in the past had he ever felt something so powerful. Love was a skeptic topic for him. The hand petting the deer curled over its fur in distress and anger. Sensing his turbulent state of mind, the deer bolted away in fright. Daryl silently watched the deer put as much distance between them. "But every time I see her leave, I get this urge to stop her. I want her to stay with me just a little longer. I want her to be better. I want her to stop thinkin' she has to be the odd man out."

"Perhaps…" Hershel mused as he watched the deer stop running and graze peacefully. "You care for her more than you think."

Daryl was silent, his eyes never leaving the deer.

* * *

A shiver rolled down her arms, pin-pricking her skin.

It was the first hour of the day. Beads of dew still clung to vegetation, making the grass appear like a sea of glittering diamonds. Birds were chirping in the distance while some walkers moaned against the chain fence, creating a macabre symphony.

Samara sat outside on the basketball court, atop a table, smoking cigarettes like it was the last day on earth. There were certain complications troubling her mind, problems that kept her from sleeping and gave her a sense of paranoia at each step.

—What was she to do with Daryl?

She really wanted to divulge her secret. It sat on the tip of her tongue and every time she caught a glimpse of Daryl, the words wanted to spew out and damn herself. That was why she avoided him. When once his touches felt like fire, it was now poison. If she remained near him and his soft touches, she wouldn't be able to help herself. The rational part of her was reluctant and that was the only thing stopping her from speaking.

Samara sighed heavily. What was she to do?

In that moment on the road, if she had remembered about Merle, would things have turned out different? She wanted to say yes, but deep down she knew she would have tried to kill him all over again. That man represented her archnemesis—racist, mysogynistic rednecks. She would have ran him over with pleasure if given the chance.

That man followed the same rules Samara did—only the strong survive. Thus, Samara saw him as a liability. A danger to her well-being. And dangers were swiftly eliminated before they could do more harm. So then, why did she feel guilty? Even if that man had been an asshole, he had been Daryl's last family, that was why.

Samara had some honor in her. Not much, but enough to still be human. And she knew what she was doing now was the lowest form. If the tables had been reversed, she would have been so hurt, so cheated and betrayed that she would start tearing down the walls in anger.

It didn't take a lot of imagination to recognize how Daryl would react.

But even knowing this, her lips remained shut. Michonne was right in thinking that it would just destroy the carefully built balance they had here. What Daryl didn't know, wouldn't kill him.

There was a dream she had just a week ago about her and Daryl. There hadn't been anything lewd about it, just the two of them sitting at a campfire, surrounded by trees and lush vegetation. It wasn't the scenery that had struck a cord in Samara, but the familiarity in which they acted around each other. There was no suspicion or restlessness, just two travel companions surviving together in a deathly quiet world.

—It had been one of the most tranquillest and strangest dreams her mind had ever conjured.

Strange because not once had she ever felt _that_ close to him. To Samara's mind, sex held no value. She had experienced all sides of it and had seen how shallow it could be. What was between them was nothing more than pleasures of the flesh. Trust, companionship, honesty—those were actual emotions that made up a relationship. She held no such values towards him. Point in fact, she was hiding his brother's death from him.

Maybe it was a subconscious craving. Before leaving the farm, she had expressed her wish to make peace with him. And once again, the night when she had gotten drunk, she had asked him to leave with her. Maybe that had been the culmination of her want—a sense of solidarity with someone.

But now…it all crashed and burned. Samara couldn't be in the same vicinity with Daryl and because of this it was slowly eating her inside.

—Guilt was a bitch.

The sound of rusty hinges announced the woman that the night shift was leaving the tower and she anticipatingly awaited for him to approach.

"Somethin's wrong if you've picked up smokin' again."

Samara almost smirked at Rick's percetiveness as he settled on the table beside her.

"I just have some things on my mind."

"No kiddin'." The man yawned loudly as he stretched his stiff arms. "You barely eat and I hear you at night pacing around in your cell. Somethin' botherin' you like crazy. You wanna talk?"

His sincerity was tempting. This man had a way of reeling her in, making her feel comfortable enough to talk about her deepest seated fears and misfortunes. Try as she might, she never could keep her distance from him. They were the Moon and Earth, never too close and never too far away.

But sometimes…these two planets collided, creating deep craters.

"This is something I have to work out myself."

Rick hummed deep in his throat, his gaze unwavering. "That why you're out _here_ of all places, at this hour when you know I finish my shift?"

Samara glared, but did not rebuke him.

"Is it about leavin'?"

"No, but since you came up with this subject, I'm leaving at the end of April."

"You can count on me if you need anythin'."

The former marshal smiled lightly. Of course he would say that. The mighty leader wouldn't let her waltz out of the prison empty-handed.

"Hey…" Her voice was soft as smoke coiled around the pair. "Why haven't you told your wife that Carl shot Shane? Why did you take that burden on yourself?"

Rick sighed, not expecting the question. Even in this early light, Rick features seemed to darken. Shadows crawled under his eyes, revealing the true exhaustion he hid. Samara hadn't been aware of how much emotional baggage the man carried around. It must feel like constantly having a noose tied around your throat, constricting every now and then as a reminder that you weren't free.

"I didn't do it on purpose." Rick hollowly stared off in the distance. "When I told her that Shane died, she immediately jumped to the conclusion that _I_ did it. I realized then that she chose him all along even thought she wanted me to think of him as an enemy. Even thought _she_ wanted me to kill him. My own best friend." The man closed his eyes in pain as he could still remember as clear as yesterday the bullet perforating Shane's chest. Lori's reaction had been soul-crushing. He had needed comfort, emotional support for what had happened. Someone to tell him that it hadn't been his fault, but instead—"She just…spurned me."

Samara threw her burnt cigarette away. She felt hopeless in the face of his story. She had thought that they had simply drifted apart, but it seemed that the poison ran much deeper. How did it feel, she wondered. To be betrayed in such a manner…

It must have left some deep, scathing scars.

"That's _really_ messed up."

"To be fooled and humiliated in such a way is… _hauntin'_." Rick's expression almost broke Samara's soul. It was so heartbroken she wanted to embrace him until all that melancholy washed away. "You don't recover from that. She didn't even try to understand." Rick sighed heavily. "I don't think she realized how confused she was about Shane and I until it was too late. Until it couldn't be taken back anymore."

"Have you two talked about him and…?" _The affair. The baby._

"I _can't_."

What could she say that would make him feel better? There really wasn't anything. This was something he had to resolve himself, him and Lori. She wouldn't interfere in such a delicate matter.

"How do you cope with all this?"

The empty smile he graced her with gave her the urge to slap it off just so she wouldn't have to look at such a sad thing. "Once you tell yourself 'it's all for the better' over and over again you start believin' it."

"Is it really?"

He scoffed.

"You think you'll ever tell her the truth?"

Rick paused and didn't speak for a few heartbeats. When he did it was with great reluctance.

"I've been focused for so many months on just findin' a safe enough place for her to give birth that I never even thought of it. I don't even know how to repair the rift between us anymore. I thought after she delivers the baby we could talk, but to be truthful, most likely _no_. Too much time has passed. There's no reason to tell her what really went on that night anymore. I've punished her enough with my silence these last six months and I don't wanna hurt her anymore. Learnin' that Carl was the one to kill Shane while he was still human…the guilt would _destroy_ her."

What a mess, Samara thought. How the hell was he still able to lead this group without breaking down from all this weight?

"Has Carl said anything?"

Rick shook his head, lost. "I don't really know what Carl thinks. Since he ain't speakin' a word of it, I think he's just tryin' to forget it ever happened. Can't blame him…"

"You're kind of a shitty parent, you know that?" It wasn't even spoken in jest.

"Yeah, I do." The man sighed reluctantly. "I wasn't always like this, but present circumstances force me to be everywhere at all times, fixin' problems that ain't mine. Doesn't leave time for much else…" His eyes fixed on her again with that soul-searching intesity Samara sometimes hated."And this leads me to wonder why you asked me about Shane."

Samara dropped her gaze, focusing on her interlaced fingers and how they fidgeted in agitation. Who else could she talk to about her problem? She knew Michonne's opinion, Andrea she couldn't because the woman had been unconscious throughout the action and everyone else were not that close to Samara, so that left—

"What if I told you I did something that can't be taken back?"

"Intentional?"

"By accident."

"Depends. How bad?"

"Different degrees." Her throat felt dry like sandpaper. "To some _one_ the worst, the others not really."

The man's eyes narrowed fractionally with a spark of shrewdness. "…Daryl?"

Samara nodded begrudgingly.

With an interesting turn, Rick's features blanked. Like a ghost sucking out his soul and leaving him dry as a prune. It was as though Samara announced someone's impending death.

"Are you _pregnant_?"

Samara giggled nervously, slightly hysteric with his turn of thinking. "No, but it would've been less terrible. I almost wish I was. At least that could be fixed."

Rick was at a loss.

"You remember the man I told you about? The one that ran me and the two women out of town?"

His eyes narrowed in rememberance. "The one with the prosthetic?"

Samara nodded, her hands now shaking with suppressed nerves. "I just realized _who_ he was a few days ago. Why his name sounded familiar."

It took a few moments for Rick to follow her train of thought and his eyes widened in awe.\

—Man with a missing hand that would deeply affect Daryl.

"Merle."

Samara nodded, choking on her own spit.

Rick leaned backwards stupefied. It was so incredible for it to have happened, so utterly ridiculous that he didn't realize it sooner since there weren't many rednecks with a hand missing these days. But most of all—

"He really did make it out of Atlanta."

Shaking off the stupor, Rick settled with his arms on his knees and his gaze unwaveringly settled on the former marshal. This was not a laughing matter.

"Is he dead?"

"I didn't see him die, but I'm pretty sure he is."

Blue eyes narrowed. "But you don't know."

Samara fidgeted, avoiding his gaze. "Not a hundred percent, but we left him hurt and unconscious in the middle of nowhere in a totaled car that smoked. Even if he got out, the chances of him surviving while injured and handicapped are pretty low."

"Yet he managed to get out of a walker infested city with a recently cut and cauterized hand." A reminder of the man's impressive prowes.

Samara shrugged. She didn't know exactly, but her gut (guilt) was telling her he was dead.

"Shit." Rick sighed, running a frustrated hand over his features.

"Sorry for laying this shitstorm on you, but I don't know what to do."

He waved it off. One more problem to deal with won't kill him.

"Who else knows?"

"Michonne. She told me to keep this to myself, but the problem is that I don't know if I can. This isn't some pet goldfish that I killed by accident, this is another human being. His _last_ remaining family. How the hell am I supposed to live with that and continue like everything is alright?"

"What's your gut sayin'?"

"It's telling me to keep quiet."

Rick nodded slowly as he looked towards the rising sun. It was such a beautiful sunrise…

"Then I suggest you follow your instinct."

Samara's eyebrows shot up almost into her hairline in surprise. That was…unexpected.

"Never thought I'd hear that from you."

"I ain't stupid, Samara. I didn't know Merle that long, but it was enough to know that he was a danger and a coked up, risky idiot. I don't miss him and his death don't affect me, but it would Daryl and I can't have that. I need him _focused_. This continuous peace is too precious to me, to all of us, to have it disturbed over someone like Merle." The shadows underneath his eyes emphasized with veiled spite. "I ain't gonna give that man the satisfaction. I had enough of chaos back at the farm, I don't need it here."

The smile that grew on the Native's lips seemed out of place. Like a puppet with its strings cut off.

"What?" Unnerved by her strange expression.

"I _like_ hearing you talk like that." Her eyes shone with wicked delight. "If only you'd been like this at the farm things might have turned out different."

"Guess we'll never know."

Samara lost her excitement and sighed in exasperation. "Gods, we're _both_ terrible people. Contemplating deaths like they were just your average shopping list. How far we've gotten, good or bad I'm still not sure."

"Sometimes you gotta be bad for the better of the whole. Ain't that what you said to me?"

She grimaced, reminiscent of Michonne's own similar words. "But how far can you go until your own soul rots?"

This time the ex-sheriff was silent. He himself had no answer.

Samara didn't flinch when the man jumped off the table, signaling his departure. There was nothing left to be discussed. Samara had made her decision.

"Don't stay out too late. You'll catch a cold."

His steps became more and more distant, but Samara's voice still carried out to his ears as soft as the morning breeze.

"Thanks for listening, _sheriff_."

Rick froze in his step.

"It does help."

"Anytime."

She heard the man resume his walk, unaware of the pleased smile that lit up his face.

* * *

Dusk was nigh.

Daryl was patrolling the back of the prison when he heard brisk footsteps behind him. He watched curiosuly as Samara marched straight towards him, her eyes alight with purpose. He didn't get to utter a word as the woman threw her arms around his neck, kissing him furiously.

Perplexed, Daryl at first wanted to reject her. She had after all avoided him for the past few days, but his body's needs, starved of her body heat, surpassed his rational thought. Picking her up, he whirled around and slammed her into the wall. Samara responded fervently at his rough approach and clawed down his back until her fingertips reached underneath his button-up shirt.

Daryl suppresed a shudder as cold fingers scratched up his spine. It was a _magnificent_ sensation.

—But this place wasn't ideal.

With difficulty, the hunter managed to disentangle from the Indian's warm, wet mouth. He hissed as Samara grinded against him, unwilling to let go just yet. One of her legs swung over the back of his knee and squeezed him tightly.

"Not here." Daryl tried to explain through labored breaths. She was _really_ testing his self-control as he was moments away from fucking her against this cold, concrete wall. Although, he was pretty sure she wouldn't mind.

Samara growled and with one last fiery kiss, she separated from his taunt body. Wasting no time, Daryl took a hold of her wrist and guided her back inside the prison as quickly as possible. The warden's office had never been so far away as now.

Reaching their destination, what transpired next was nothing short of debauched, rough and passionate sex. Almost week on the dry had left both with a hunger for the pleasures of the flesh. Like starved beasts in the middle of a desert.

Samara pushed Daryl off her as she regained her breathing. Her bra had only been moved up over her breasts and it was now starting to discomfort her. They had been in such a hurry that they gave up halfway in undressing each other, leaving them in a half-naked state.

Squeezing her thighs together, Samara enjoyed the last remanants of her orgasm. It had been like a drop of exquisite honey. Daryl wasn't in any better shape as he panted roughly, his skin covered in sweat. The sight of him so thouroughly _content_ had Samara roll with her back to him. Her emotional state was still too raw.

Was this the right thing to do? Samara didn't know, she just acted on instinct. Once she had decided that keeping everything hush-hush was for the best, she immediately felt the need to be with somebody, to connect…to not feel so alone. Perhaps this was also her way of apologizing for her deceit. It wasn't the best, but at this point she didn't know what else to do. Being repentant wasn't her strongest point.

A shiver rolled down her spine as gentle fingers brushed over her skin. Samara's first reaction was to move away, swat the upsetting hand away, but she didn't. She stayed right in place and put up with his gentleness, wincing all the way. This hurt worse than any fist ever could, but she let the hunter have his way.

She was sorry, truly, but it was better this way. What he didn't know, wouldn't hurt him. In a way, she was protecting him from an awful truth.

"Was almost startin' to think you wanted out."

"I just had to deal with something."

Silence.

"Does it got anythin' to do with the ring?"

"No."

During their conversation, Daryl kept on stroking her back. The moment he placed his full palm in the middle of her back, Samara shivered.

"You want me to stop?"

"…I don't know." She whispered with a hitch.

Sensing something amiss, Daryl turned her on her back with him leaning over.

"Somethin' ain't right."

She was deeply troubled. Her expression was contorted in a pained grimace and she seemed unwiling to look him in the eye.

"Don't." She pushed the hand that touched her cheek away.

"What?"

She hid her face in her palms, fearful of what secrets he could see in her traitorous eyes. "Be kind to me. I can't deal with your softness."

"This ain't me bein' soft on you." He pulled her hands away from her face and tried to make her look at him, softly squeezing her fingers. "Hey."

Slithering out of his hold, she reached out and touched the bags underneath his eyes. She traced the lines with such delicacy that it startled the hunter. She was never this soft.

"Do you like me, Daryl?"

The question, so unexpected, rattled the man to his core.

"I don't know."

Samara smiled saddly. "You really shouldn't. I'm not a good person."

"I know that, but neither am I."

Her fingers glided downwards over his cheeks and her thumbs carressed them tenderly. "You know I'm in this for selfish reasons that disregard what you want or feel. I'm _horrible_ like that."

"I've slept with women before for the same exact reason." His hand absentmindedly stroked her hair. "I didn't like 'em or even gave a shit about them. It don't bother me that you're doin' the same."

Her ministrations ceased as she probed him deeply.

"I don't believe you. You've always had more at stake than me."

Daryl sighed. He didn't want to delve deeper into his motives.

"Does it matter?"

"Yes, it does." She cupped his cheeks firmly. "Because despite everything…I _don't_ want to hurt you." Melancholy oozed out of her. "And I think that's the only road we're heading towards."

The hunter's grip on her hair tightened. She was starting to give up and he wasn't keen on hearing that.

"It doesn't have to be."

"I wish it didn't, but I know myself and you are not exactly the most emotionally avaliable man I've ever met. We're not good for each other. Maybe we should—"

Slam!

Daryl hit the floorboard beside her head in frustration.

"Fuck that! What did you expect, a fairytale story where everyone gets a happy ending? That ain't gonna happen. This is real life and it's harsh and bleak with death at every corner." His words were unforgiving, but true. Even his expression displayed nothing but honesty. "Me and you ain't perfect for each other, hell we ain't even good, but I…I _want_ this." He cleared his throat, barely getting the words out. This was very difficult for an introverted man like him. Daryl was familiar with keeping his feelings to himself, not dispersing them for the world to see and considering who the person he was unburdening himself to was, it made the anxiety ten times worse. "You drive me up the wall sometimes and I know you also feel the same, but I'd rather not change it for anythin' else."

Samara hid her face again, but Daryl wouldn't have it. He moved her hands away and kissed her softly.

She couldn't take it. This was too much. The guilt was overflowing with each affectionate word and Samara was close to vomiting out her secrets. She wanted to be as far away from here as possible.

—This was plain mental torture.

"What do you feel?"

She doesn't give him an answer.

She can't.


	30. Just Hanging Around

**Author's Note:**

To **XavierWaverly** – Yo! Welcome to the story! Happy that you enjoyed it so far. Don't worry, Lori's time will shine and so will the Governor's. Soon. Also, I'm curious which moments in the story had you cringe and made you go batshit mad so I can revel in them, bwahaha!

To **BluhBluh44** – Now that you mention it, the song does share similarities with our star duo. Huh…I've heard the song before but never made a connection. Now whenever I hear it I instantly think of Daryl and Samara :)

* * *

"Place don't look broken in, but expect walkers at every corner. No guns unless you got no other option. I don't want a horde over our heads."

Samara was standing beside the scavenger group consisted of Daryl, Oscar and Maggie. They had drove south for provisions, stopping at a small shopping mall outside Columbus. Lori's due date was drawing near and they still had more stuff to buy for the baby, not to mention for themselves.

Olive green eyes followed the man in charge of the group. It's been a week since Samara came to terms with her decision. She still felt uneasy being around Daryl, especially under the cover of darkness, but it was becoming easier with each day. The guilt still wouldn't leave her, though. It gaped open like a festering wound.

The building really wasn't big. It was only one story, but it did have a bit of length.

But what bothered her was the goosebumps that arose the moment she got near the mall. She felt eyes on her.

"You feel it too, don't you?" Samara asked lowly as she noticed Daryl scouting the area shrewdly.

He nodded subtetly. "Somethin' ain't right. Feels like the calm before a storm."

"Walkers?"

"I don't know."

If it wasn't walkers, it was people and that was worse.

"Should we go back?" Samara wished to avoid an altercation with desperate humans. There were always casualties.

Daryl pondered with a deep frown. He was team leader, it was his decision.

"We need baby formula." He came to a conclusion. "We can't keep runnin' around Georgia lookin' for it. Besides, supplies are runnin' low. We need to restock."

"If you say so." She wasn't happy with the decision judging from the light scowl.

"Be alert and keep everyone in your sights. If shit hits the fan, we leave, supplies or not. I don't want to fight."

The initial plan had been for the group to split up in two teams, but with this new dilemma Daryl had decided to stick to one group. Walkers were scarce, but at least Daryl's first assessment wasn't wrong. The mall was strangely untouched.

The western part was were they headed. A small supermarket was located there. They four never drifted too far apart, always within eyesight of each other. Samara and Maggie were sorting through canned food for the still edible ones when Samara saw something out of the corner of her eye. The inside of the market wasn't very illuminated, so visibility was reduced, but she knew she saw movement. Bow at the ready she followed the suspicious shadow.

"What's wrong?" Maggie whispered as she took out her machete in response to Samara's alertness.

"Something moved."

The men were still a few meters away and hadn't noticed the women stalking the shadow behind rows of food. The danger Samara had perceived turned out to be a stylishly dressed mannequin holding some product for promotion among its other fancy dressed brethren.

Maggie laughed silently while Samara huffed.

"I don't think it's gonna come at us." Maggie smirked. "Come on, let's go back."

As they leave, they don't see one of the _mannequins_ turn to follow their movements.

* * *

An hour passed and they scored enough provisions to last the whole group two weeks. They even found baby food and some cheap baby monitors. All in all, it was a good catch. Every now and then, the fine hairs on her nape would rise and Samara's muscles would lock tightly, but still she couldn't find the culprit.

Perhaps she was being paranoid…

But her thoughts of intruders faded away as spotted a small section filled with camping and hiking gear. Perusing over the items, she was delighted to find items needed for her own solo journey. She needed to be ready since April's end was a few breaths away.

Samara wouldn't change her mind. She still felt that being on the move would keep her alive far longer than staying in one place for an extended period of time.

Arizona.

She wanted to go back. She wanted to visit her father's grave…Say goodbye one last time.

Perhaps it was nostalgia or a sense of safety in knowing that her childhood house was the only place to be, but with each day she felt the pull even harsher. She knew there was nothing there waiting for her, only the dead, abandoned houses and empty streets, but she still wanted to go _home_ desperately.

And from there…Who knew…

In the time Samara spent contemplating her future plans, she didn't notice Oscar's—who was in near vicinity—attention being diverted towards the back of the store. He left in search of the low foreign sound, his machete at ready, thinking there was a walker nearby.

Flashligth illuminated his way, but he saw nothing out of the ordinary. There was no threat or even a source of the strange soun—

Click.

Oscar's pupils dilated to dimes.

He slowly turned to the side and saw the muzzle of a gun pointed at him.

"Don't make a sound."

* * *

"Marshal?"

"What?'

Samara turned and without pause, upholstered her Glock and pointed at the man holding Oscar at gun point.

"Put that gun down." She rasped coldly.

"Damn, I was thinkin' the same thing." The man said in a thick southern accent. "You either put that gun down or I blow your friend's head off."

Samara doesn't. Her brain was rapidly calculating the chances of killing him before he had the chance to hurt Oscar, but a cool barrel pressing at the back of her head had her mind freeze. Someone was behind her.

"You really don't want to try us, chica."

With a frustrated sigh, Samara dropped the gun. There was no way she could escape out of this standoff alive and with Oscar. The others were too far away to either hear or notice their distress and Samara knew that if she screamed, she'd most likely die. For now she stayed put and let the events unroll before her.

"Take off all the others weapons you have on you, lowly and quietly, and don't skip one." The one behind her had a hispanic accent. "I'll know."

She took off everything, slowly as to not excite her aggressors.

"Good. Now bring your hands behind your back and keep them crossed at the wrist. Don't move or my buddy there will kill the woman."

Samara remained still as the man tied her wrists with harsh plastic cuffs. Oscar was next and he was pushed to the floor on his belly along with Samara.

"Stay there and don't move."

Oscar was angry, that much Samara could tell from the man's clenched jaw. They were in a bad situation. There was no way they could escape their bonds, not without cutting them and their weapons were all scattered on the floor. Samara had a small knife hidden in the interior of her boot, but she wasn't in any position to reach for it.

"Guns, machete, knives, even a bow. This woman is either lookin' for a fight or is very paranoid."The southern man spoke in hushed tones.

 _Fuck you,_ Samara deadpanned. She wasn't paranoid _._

"Gather all of them. We need the ammo."

Samara turned her head to assess the threat. The men were one Hispanic in his late-twenties with many tattoos scattered across his body. Samara could see gang related tattoos and knew what he had been preocuping his time with in his previous life. The other man, an older white man in his early fifties, looked worn out as if he had seen too much of the world. He had several scars on his face, mostly concentrated on his left cheek and mouth. He looked authoritive, but it seemed he followed the younger one's lead.

They didn't look haggard. They were actually healthy looking, so they weren't dealing with desperate vagabonds.

Samara almost jumped out of her skin as a gunshot echoed in the tomblike supermarket. Several shots followed after before a couple of voices arguing violently. Something toppled over, most likely glass as it produced a horryfing screech.

Samara knew what it was.

Daryl and Maggie.

" _What the fuck are they doing?!"_ The Hispanic barked angrily. _"They were supposed to do this quietly!"_

The older man sighed knowingly. _"I bet my old badge that your brother fucked up again."_

" _I hope not, otherise I'll beat him until he's blue. Fucking idiot!"_

" _You know he don't give a shit."_

The Hispanic tsked in frustration.

Samara's heart pounded heavily. _Are they still alive?_

* * *

Daryl was packing up as much baby food as his backpack could carry, but his mind was heavy with disturbing thoughts.

 _Somethin' ain't right. A place so big near the city hasn't been touched_ once _. Even the food is still on the shelves, nothin's been taken. Almost like this place was preserved._

The hunter frowned even deeply.

 _This smells like a trap._

This conclusion had him on the edge. He knew he felt eyes watching him in the parking lot and coupled with this setting…everything was too perfect. But he didn't abandon it at first glance. They needed the food.

But now that they had gathered enough, he needed to get to Oscar and the women out. If this was an ambush, he did not want to be here when it happened. Besides he didn't know what he was dealing with. It might be an army for all he knew.

Walking rapidly through the isles, he could hear Maggie a few rows to the side rummaging through bags of food, but not the other two.

His teeth grinded in annoyance. _Where the hell are they?_

As he hit the corner, his rapid reflexes allowed him to duck the oncoming baseball bat to his head. Dropping the heavy backpack, he readied a powerfull punch and swung, conneting with the assailant's jaw.

" _Mierda!"_

Destabilizing the younger man, Daryl wrenched the bat out of his hand and kicked him in the gut, throwing him to the floor. The following gunshot that resounded in the large, empty room, startled the hunter. There was a familiar woman's shout and a foreign one.

 _Maggie!_

This moment of inattention gave the downed man the chance to send a kick into Daryl's ankle. The hunter gasped in pain and hopped away, giving the stranger the time to upholster his gun and gather to his feet. Daryl didn't allow him the chance to shoot as he grabbed both his wrists and they grappled. The next few tense moments were spent throwing each other in the rafters, struggling for power over the other. Jars and cans of food fell off, creating a nosiy concerto as glass shattered.

Daryl barely even took notice of the following gunshots a few isles away. There were rapid footsteps that led away and more gunshots with one woman holwing in pain once before spewing curses.

The younger man sent a knee into Daryl's side. It hurt, but it lacked strength. Barely phased, the hunter countered with a downwards stomp on his bended knee. The Hispanic yelled in pain and dropped to one knee giving Daryl the power to push him to the floor and take control of the gun that loosed in the younger man's grip.

Just as he turned the gun on the man's forehead and was seconds away from pulling the trigger, a powerful blow connected with the back of his head.

The lights went out.

* * *

"Where's the girl?"

Samara listened to the strangers' conversation carefully. The rest of the men's group had arrived a few moments ago with a handcuffed, barely awake Daryl, but no Maggie. Samara feared the worst for the farm girl, especially since she heard the echo of several shoots being fired. The Georgia hunter seemed alright aside from the fact that he looked like he could see small birds circling over his head.

"Dead." The one woman in the group spoke. She was lithe with dark skin and dark eyes. Her hair was curly and once upon a time it had been a gorgoues afro, but now it sagged limpy. Samara wouldn't give her more than thirty. "Bitch ran into a room with walkers. Heard her scream, so she's not gonna bother us."

The Native's stomach plummeted. Maggie…was dead…

 _Oh gods, no._

She felt her heart shrivel up. Just like that, in the span of a few moments, she lost one person she cared about. All because of these people.

 _These fucking bastards!_

Rage swelled inside her. She wanted to tear them to pieces, grind their bones to dust and feed the walkers with their flesh. Did they know her? Who she had been? Who she had waiting for her back at the prison?

 _Oh gods_ …

Cold sweat poured out of her skin as she realized. Glenn and Hershel and Beth. They will be destroyed when they find out.

 _If_ they get out of this situation alive.

"How deep is it?"

"Just a graze." The woman winced as she looked over her bleeding upper arm, but she kept herself upright. Maggie must have shot her and by the looks of it also punched her since her cheek was slightly swollen.

"My ass just a graze." The older man scoffed fatherly. "The bullet went clean through your arm, girl."

"I'm _fine_." She stressed like a coiled up viper.

"Let Winchester bandage you up." The leader commanded. "We'll take care of it properly back at base."

"So!" The other Hispanic, who turned out to be the leader's twin, clapped his hands to get everyone's attention. "We only need two. Which one?"

She and Oscar were on their knees with Daryl beside them on the floor trying to regain consciouness.

"The crossbow man, obviously. He's a fighter." The woman observed the hunter with a smirk before looking at the beginnings of bruises on the Hispanic twin. The younger man saw her amusement and flipped the woman off.

"And the big guy." The more active Hispanic brother spoke with a wide grin. "The big ones are always the toughest ones to bring down. They go apeshit over that."

 _They?_ Samara sweated. _Who are 'they'?_

"I say the woman instead." The older man mused. "The guy called her marshal, so she must know how to fight."

"A marshal, eh?" The smiling twin crouched low and inspected the Native, before smiling spitefully. "Never had a marshal cuff me before, usually just boring ass cops, but this is a nice change of pace. Tables have turned, puta."

He patted her on the cheek sharply, enraging the Native. She wished she could bite his fingers off, maybe that would wipe that shit-eating grin off his face.

The leader of the group, the more serious of the twins, considered between Oscar and her. "Both are fit enough, so…"

He pointed a finger towards Samara before slowly moving onto Oscar.

"Eenie, meenie, minie, mo…"

The Native's eyes widened in horror when the countdown reached zero and she hadn't been picked.

"Well, that's that."

He took out his gun and pointed it at Samara's forehead.

Her heartbeat slowed to a snail's pace. She could feel it pound in her throat, choking her with inevitability. Her breath felt like a horn in her ears and atop that she could hear a distant ringing.

She knew this sensation. Felt it before, oh so many times.

—Death was calling.

Was this it? The end of the line?

 _What a dumb way to die…_

"Wait!" Daryl, who had regained much of his senses, tried to reach them but was knocked over with the butt of the southern man's shotgun. He fell to the floor, nose bleeding.

"Stop it, you asshole!" Oscar yelled as he struggled with his binds and was about to get to his feet, but the smiling twin kicked him in the gut. Oscar fell back coughing and spitting.

Samara smirked sadistically in the face of her impending death. If she was going to die, she won't die begging or crying.

"I hope the last thing you ever see before dying are walkers devouring your brother."

The Hispanic narrowed his eyes in scorn.

His finger started pushing on the trigger.

"Goddammit, kill me instead!" Daryl rushed against the man with the shotgun as he tried to reach the latino. His voice screamed desperation and his eyes were wide in terror. All that ran through his mind was: 'Not her'

"Why would I do that?" The leader didn't even grace him with a glance, his eyes still poignantly on Samara. They were on a tense standoff, neither wanting to lose.

"That woman is as tough as I am and extremely vicious." Daryl pleaded as he struggled with the older man, blood still dripping down his mouth. "Whatever it is you need us for, she'll be more of use than me. If it's a fight you want then I ain't gonna do nothin'. I'm just gonna lie there and be no game to anyone."

" _Is he serious?"_ The other twin looked agitatedly between the hunter and his brother. _"Bro, if he does that, we won't get the supplies."_

" _I know, but they also don't like women fighting. Last time we brought them one and_ he _wasn't exactly pleased."_

" _Yeah, but that bitch could barely hold a knife without dropping it like an idiot. I bet this one won't go down without at least taking someone down with her. Look at that glare! If she had lasers, we'd all be dead. I think_ he _'ll like that."_

The leader's eyes narrowed in deep thought. He was seriously contemplating the proposition. He then made eye contact with Daryl and a light seemed to shed over his features.

"She's your woman."

Daryl looked at Samara and what she saw there frightened her.

–Desperation.

He was _dreadfully_ afraid of losing her.

"Yeah…"

Oscar looked startled between the two of them.

And Samara—

 _You idiot! You fool! They others need you more than they need me! You can't die! Goddamn you!_

"Alright." He smirked lazily, but all she could see was the hidden malice behind it. "Chica, you just got yourself a free pass for the moment."

Samara looked on horrified as the nuzzle of the gun turned to the hunter. The man braced himself for the impending bullet, unwavering. If he had to die, at least it would be for someone.

A sob clogged itself in her throat as the finger moved to the trigger. Time distorted as the man applied pressure and Samara felt a wave of hysteria overcome her as her mind raced with irrational possibilities from her jumping the man and getting all of them killed to offering Oscar as the sacrificial lamb.

 _He'sgoingtodieohgodnonotthispleasegodshelpusdon'tlethimdie_

"Wait." The brother interrupted the tense moment.

The Native almost howled from burnt nerves as she was freed from that horrible dread. Her whole body was shaking with adrenaline and there was nothing she could do. Daryl must be feeling the same as she could see a tiny hint of relief.

"What now?" The leader scowled. He didn't feel like entertaining anyone at the moment.

"That fucker almost broke my jaw and made me look like a pendejo. He doesn't get to die so easily." There was a sadistic grin to him that instantly uneased the two women and man.

"Here we go." The dark skinned woman rolled her eyes in annoyance as the older man finished up bandaging her arm. Even he sighed in weariness.

"Hell no." The other brother almost snapped, watching his twin knowingly. "We don't have time for that."

"It won't be long. Come on, bro." He clasped his shoulder in good cheer. "Have some fun from time to time. It'll be just like old times."

The man rubbed his features in frustration. "You're killing me, you know that?"

His brother just smiled happily, knowing that he won.

The leader stepped away after a moment's thought, giving his brother leeway. He signaled to the other two, who watched him in disbelief, to move the two women.

"Are you serious?"

"At least we won't have to deal with him bitching the whole way back."

The woman sighed in frustration, but heeded the man's orders as did the older gentleman.

"Wait." Oscar struggled as he was picked up by the older man. Alarmed, he looked between the strangers and Daryl. Something was _very_ wrong. "What are you gonna do?"

And then Samara saw it and she lost all hope.

—Rope.

The brother took out a long length of rope out of his backpack and expertly tied it into a noose.

 _Oh Gods…_

Samara watched in mute horror as the man threw it over the visible railings sticking out of the ceiling. The noose swung lazily in the deathly silent room.

—This was the hour of the executioner.

Oscar started cursing as he struggled against his captor. Not this. Anything but this.

The Native remained motionless like a doll with its strings cut off as she watched the sadistic brother throw the noose over Daryl's head and smile in conquest. Words were spoken too low for her to hear, but she saw Daryl's reaction to it. She could count on one hand how many times she'd see him that livid. Mad enough that he swiftly and unexpectedly headbutted the younger man.

The Hispanic cursed and howled as he held his nose in pain, blood leaking down his chin. The other twin used the butt of his gun and hit Daryl over the cheek, splitting the skin open. Blood flowed and eyes wavered in double vision, but Daryl didn't regret his decision.

Samara's expression contorted to palpable terror as the rope tightened around Daryl's neck and the twins began cruelly pulling on the other end, lifting the hunter into the air by his neck.

 _No. No. No. No._

This is what despair felt like. To be hopeless against the tide. Just like her husband, Daryl will die and there was nothing she could do. She again will be haunted by ghosts in her dreams.

He was dying because of her. For her. Why? Why is he doing this?! She wasn't worth that sacrifice! She was a nobody with nothing left in this world! He had a family back at the prison, while she was a vagabond.

Her eyes widened suddenly.

She never told him about his brother. He will die without ever knowing the truth.

Her mouth opened, but nothing came out. The words remained lodged in her throat. She couldn't spit them out. She couldn't cause him suffering now, of all times.

Let him die with that illusion, her mind whispered. Samara closed her mouth, a bitter taste on her tongue.

 _This is all so fucked up. Everything is falling to pieces._

The owl had come for him.

Distantly, she could hear Oscar's foul words become louder before they were cut short. That awful high-pitched sound was back again and Samara could barely hear anything else beside that grating frequency and her own despairing heartbeat. But to her later awe, the culmination of her high anxiety and boiling despair came to a quick snap in her mind.

She felt a coolness envelope her as if dunk in cold water.

Everything became clear and reduced to nothing but a dull sensation. That despair that almost crippled her a moment ago was now an afterthought as she watched with a morbid critical eye how Daryl began struggling in the air. A stray comment even passed through her head about the rope's obvious old age. They should have used a better one that could sustain more weight.

—This was complete detachment. The only way the woman knew how to survive in the face of such anguish.

She was separating herself from everything and everyone, observing her surroundings with the mind of a machine. Cold and calculating.

Even the sight of Daryl's face turning blue or the raw skin around his neck with thin streaks of blood rolling into his shirt didn't move her. His eyes were beginning to color red, the sign of his blood vessels bursting. Soon the oxygen will be cut off from his lungs and his brain will stop functioning.

Getting hanged wasn't like in the movies. It wasn't as easy or clean as it appeared. It was messy and lacked dignity.

As the woman led her away, Samara looked behind her to see Daryl's death rattle. For a moment their eyes connected and Samara knew that these were his last moments. A dog's death. One he didn't deserve.

 _I'm sorry._

He was still struggling as they rounded the corner and no more did she see him.

 _Ever_ again.

That had been the end of this journey for him.

Samara barely noticed when they walked out of the mall and was pushed in the back of a van along with an unconscious Oscar. Her mind was still strangely light as the engine rumbled and the car sped out of the parking lot.

Nothing seemed to be able to break Samara out of her trance.

 _Daryl…_

* * *

 _ **Foot Note:**_ _:)_


	31. Kill Them All

_**Author's Note:**_ In case I don't update before the holidays, I wish you all a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year, you darn hippies!

Thank you for sticking around, through the ups and downs, especially to those that have been with me from the beginning. You guys are smashing! Thank you for the encouragement, kind words and the critical aspect of some of your reviews, sometimes that was all it took for me to keep on writing. I wished my stories had gotten more attention, but I guess not everyone is too keen on reading drawn-out stories or perhaps I have too little smut in them to be of interest. Or, of course, a writer's worst nightmare, it isn't interesting enough. Eh, to each their own.

Enjoy and I hope you have a wonderful winter!

* * *

"Hey!"

An echo barely perceptible in the vast darkness.

"Come on, Daryl!"

He felt like he was trapped in an endless sea of nothingness, floating into heavy air. There was only a sporadic pressure on his chest that kept him from complete passivity.

"Breathe, damn you!"

This voice was disturbing him from his peaceful numbness. He disliked it. Why couldn't he be left alone?

The detachment faintly cleared as something wet and warm pressed against his lips and before he knew, his lungs expanded. Life was once again breathed into him.

His fingers jerked in the void. Awareness had returned in his extremities.

"Don't die on me like this!"

 _Maggie._

It was Maggie that was calling him.

He wasn't supposed to be here, was he? _No…_

Before…He had been scavanging with the others when—

His eyelids flickered as his mind broke through the thick fog.

That's right. They had been attacked. Samara and Oscar had been taken and he had been hange—

"Come on, Daryl! Breathe!"

Gasp.

Daryl felt his entire body sucked out of that oblivion, his organs compressed so tightly that he could feel them mash up together to form one single entity. His eyes opened with a start as this time Maggie all but used her fists to bang against his chest. The harsh breath he took felt like heaven after what felt like hours of holding back his oxygen. But with the sweetness of being alive again came a sharp pain in his throat. It burned and constricted, depriving him of speech.

A harsh cough overcame him and tears leaked out like a faucet. He wanted to stop, but his lungs wouldn't let him in its race to recuperate the lost time spent at the brink of death.

—This was torture.

"Oh, thank God." Maggie wiped the tears off her cheeks, relief washing over her in the form of frenzied laughter. "If anyone is up there, thank you for once hearin' me out."

He was alive?

Blood dribbled out of his mouth as he turned over onto his stomach. His wrists were still tied behind his back, so he had nothing to support him as he coughed out his lungs. Daryl's cold forehead met the gritty floor as he struggled to regain control of his rampant body.

He had been dead just a few seconds ago, or almost. Now, he was back among the living. Wasn't he supposed to be a walker by now?

A gentle hand laid on his back, soothing him. At the back of his mind, he was grateful for the small gesture of comfort, but it didn't really help in the long run. Fire raged through his veins as his organs went into hyper-drive. His entire body hurt in places that he hadn't even known existed.

He felt hands on his wrists and not a moment later his hands were set free. Blood rushed back to his numb fingers, leaving a tingling sensation in its wake. He rolled over as his breathing somewhat cleared and tried to touch his neck, but those nimble hands stopped him.

"Don't touch it. It's raw." Maggie lowered his trembling hands to his chest and kept them in her warm grip. "You still got some blood there. Wait a sec, I'll patch you up."

There wasn't much Maggie could do other than clean his wounds as best as she could and bandage his neck with whatever supplies she found in the market.

Daryl hissed as the fine cloth touched his wounds. It felt like lemon juice was being squeezed into his open skin.

"Why…How…?" The words were barely able to get past, his voice grating like sandpaper. "That woman…you…dead."

"Almost." Maggie sniffed as she finished knotting the bandage. "That bitch cornered me in a room with walkers. She thought that would kill me for sure, but it didn't." A glint of malice darkened her jade eyes. "Those bastards almost had me, but _I_ killed 'em instead. Saw them hangin' you and draggin' Samara and Oscar away. When those twins left, the rope broke. It was a piece of junk, no wonder it didn't hold you. I'm pretty sure that's what saved you in the end." By now, there was a fresh set of tears as her features cracked with guilt."I—I'm sorry that I didn't help sooner."

"No…If…did…be killed."

If Maggie had tried, the only thing she would have accomplished was an early grave.

"I just feel like I should have done somethin'." She openly cried as her lips trembled uncontrolably. "I couldn't even lift a finger to help."

"This…best…could do." Daryl rose his upper body, careful of his tender muscles. He grabbed Maggie's upper arms firmly as he tried to regain her attention. She was clearly in shock—near death experiences had that effect—and he needed her focused. "Maggie…where…they?"

"I—I don't know." Maggie's voice trembled with barely suppresed hysteria. "They didn't say anythin' and I couldn't chase 'em and leave you to die. I had no choice. I—I'm sorry."

Daryl rose to his feet too quickly resulting in multicolored spots appearing in his vision. There was a moment where his sight blackened before swirling. He had to double over and hold his knees in fear of falling.

"What are you doing?" Maggie caught him before the vertigo flattened him. "Sit back down before you fall!"

"Gotta…find…her—them!" He struggled out of Maggie's hold, but without success. The woman's grip was absolute. "Can't sit…they get…away!"

As soon as he tried to stand up, Daryl fell back holding his dazed head. An accute pain hit both sides of his temple and a faint ringing curled his ears.

"You can't even stand." Maggie scolded him as she gave him a bottle of water to drink. "How are you gonna run out there and drive a car? We need to get the others and—"

He threw the bottle away, water spraying everywhere. "By then…useless! Can't…leave 'em! We…go…now!"

His last word came out with a hiss. The more he tried to talk the more the insides of his throat hurt, but he didn't have a choice. It was a small price to pay in the end.

Daryl hoped that all that was holy that Maggie would agree with him. He wasn't in any shape or form to walk, let alone drive. He'd only get himself killed. Again. He needed her help right now, more than ever.

Maggie looked torn between listening to him and following her instincts. Both had some truth to their words, but there were cons to each other's idea. She wanted to go home to Glenn and her family. She wanted to embrace her husband and have him tell her that everything was going to be alright. That it was all a nightmare.

The farm girl shuddered. She had almost died in that room, eaten alive by two disgusting walkers. She hadn't even had time to process her close brush with death because she had to confront the problem hanging off the ceiling and now…they had to go on some wild chase with no leads whatsoever.

But this was Samara and Oscar they were talking about. They were part of the group. She couldn't just leave them behind.

"Fine…" Maggie's eyes hardened with determination. "But I'm drivin'."

* * *

Samara tried to move her wrists to alleviate the pain, but it proved useless. The plastic just cut deeper into her chaffed skin, prolonging her anguish.

She and Oscar had been taken to their attackers hideout, an abandoned farm somewhere off the main road. Inside the basement, they had been strapped to one of the supporting beams, back to back and left on the stony ground to freeze.

It was cold enough that Samara could see her breath leave in puffs of white clouds. Her mood hadn't changed since they left the mall. The world still felt like it was viewed through a third person. Everything was a dream that she was only witnessing without any control.

"Hey, marshal."

 _Hmm?_

"We need to get the hell out of here."

Oscar had woken up sometime in the van and before he could create a disturbance once again, a shotgun was shoved into his face. That placated him nicely. But now, they were alone. The only sounds heard were the muted voices from upstairs and their owners heavy footsteps.

"Hey!" The ex-con whispered harshly, shaking the both of them with his wriggling. "Stop daydreamin' and start thinkin'!"

Samara's fingers twitched as a kindle of irritation sparked deep in the jaded darkness, but that flame soon flickered out and silence reigned.

"Didn't you hear 'em? They're gonna sell us to some sickos! I don't know about you, but I don't wanna stick around here when that happens."

 _Yeah…that's right…they're were going to fight…_

" _What are you going to do with us?"_

 _The old man, Winchester, looked at them vacantly before resuming his work on securing them._

" _Ain't it obvious?" The wilder twin responded with a huge grin. "We're gonna have a wild party with your friend. Sadie over there is boring as hell, only thinks about killing deaders, so when we saw this good-lookin' mama we just couldn't help ourselves."_

 _Samara barely heard the man. She was lost in her own world, but Oscar did. He glared angrily at the youth and began to struggle in his bonds. He wanted nothing more than to wipe that smile off the young man's pleased face. The older man sighed in exasperation, but it was more directed at the Hispanic than the hostage's struggle._

" _Cut it out." The leader hit his brother over the head, before settling his taciturn gaze on Oscar. "Don't listen to my brother. We're not gonna do anything to either of you. We need you intact."_

" _Then what's going to happen?"_

" _You'll get traded for something much better."_

" _To who?"_

" _Just a man who needs bodies for his people's entertainment."_

 _Oscar's face fell in dread. That could mean a number of things._

" _Don't look so grim, man." The smiling twin patted Oscar over the back mockingly. "You're gonna fight in an arena. That's better than being a cum receptacle."_

Arena. Entertainment. Someone made themselves their own Coliseum with them as the sacrificial lambs. What were they going to fight—people or walkers?

Didn't matter which one, the end would be the same even if they won—death. That didn't sound so bad. Samara wondered calmly how many rounds she'll last before her body gave out.

"Look, I'm pretty sure you're traumatized right now and I'm sorry that Daryl had to die like that. He didn't deserve it and neither did Maggie." Oscar spoke softly, but the firm resolve underneath it was unmistakable. He was intent of saving them both. "But you need to pull yourself together now. Break down _after_ we escape."

"I'm not traumatized." Her voice was dipped in steel. Right now, Daryl's death was furthest from her mind. It was buried deep enough so it wouldn't resurface at an inopportune moment. Maggie…Samara completely forgot about the farm girl. She had been so focused on emptying herself of all emotion that the girl just flew out of her mind.

 _That poor girl._

Words, but there was no feeling behind it. The only thing she felt was a peculiar emptiness, the one she brought on herself to keep from breaking down at the seams. She swore she would mourn the girl when the time was right. Send a prayer to the Gods even if she didn't believe in that crap. Old habits had a way of bringing a certain degree of comfort in her.

"It's useless to escape right now since the whole house is awake. We have to wait until they are all asleep and if they're smart, they'll post a guard. We'd have to get past him undetected—or just kill him stealthily—in order to escape without alerting the others."

"Yeah, well…Until we get to that part, we still need to get out of this fuckin' binds! Goddamn, I can't believe I'm in cuffs again."

"I have a small pocket knife in my boot."

"What?" He tried to turn his head and catch her eye to verify the truthfulness of her words. Was she serious? "Why didn't you say this before?!"

Samara shrugged. There hadn't exactly been a moment where she could have used the knife unnoticeably, so there hadn't been any reason to divulge it.

"Fuck, you're out of your mind. Bend your leg backwards." Samara did with dullness. She bended her leg backwards and pushed it as far as she could. "Closer." She was pushing her limits as a grimace of pain took over.

She didn't know how much she could last in this awkward position as her leg began trembling from the strain. Oscar's hands prodded around her shoe laces, untying them as best he could from his position.

"Done!"

Samara exhaled loudly. Sweat had formed at the base of her temple, wetting her hairline. She felt like she had undergone a session in extreme yoga. Recovering her leg, she used her other foot to push her boot out. Free of its confines, Samara passed it onto Oscar who began uncomfortably searching for the tiny weapon. His position didn't give him much leeway so he had to strain his muscles and let the cuffs cut into his skin.

"It's in the stitching."

The Native heard the material of her boot rip.

"Got it!"

A flick of metal and Oscar began cutting into the plastic. The minutes passed in heated tension as both captives waited to hear the plastic break. The process was slow, but Oscar kept it at a steady rhythm. If he went in quickly he might just slip and cut into his own skin or that of Samara's.

"Yes! I'm free!"

Samara felt Oscar's hands move unobstructed, but they weren't free yet. There was a tight rope coiled around them to which Oscar began working on it.

Even with the prospect of freedom close at hand, Samara still couldn't shake off the desolation. It was good that they were going to escape and Samara will do her best to get them both out, but she just couldn't find any fulfillment in it.

She knew the reason why. It was because of Dar—

 _No. Don't think about him._

Samara screwed her eyes shut to erase the sudden flash of his image. The man beside her was right. There was no time to mourn at the moment, not when they both were in trouble of joining the deceased.

A heavy breath escaped the ex-marshal as the rope fell into her lap.

"Come on, marshal." She saw Oscar from her peripheral view as he crouched next to her and cut her restraints. "We're almost free."

While the cuffs may not exactly be off, just cut in the center so she could move her hands freely, Samara felt a heavy pressure lift from her shoulders. Her wrists were bright red as the plastic was embedded into her skin. At the moment, there was nothing she could do about it but resist the stinging pain.

She looked deeply into Oscar's eyes and knew what needed to be done. Getting out of their confines had been the easy part, now their steps will be seeped in difficulty. There were fifty-fifty chances they would escape intact and one of them may even die along the way, but at least they were willing to try and not sit in place like quiet sheep.

"Let's go."

* * *

"Fuck!"

Daryl hit the dashboard, wincing from the forced shout. Maggie had been driving around the area for hours with nothing in sight, not even a skid mark. Darkness had settled in an hour ago accompanied by an eerie stillness that seemed to mute all sounds around them.

The car came to a halt. There was nothing before them but empty road filled with overgrown vegetation.

"Daryl…" Maggie's hands tightened on the steering wheel until they turned pastel white. "We have to go back."

"Not…yet." He hissed, eyes fixated on the road ahead. His mind picked through his memories on the off chance that he missed a sign or a clue along the way.

"We haven't found anythin' and we won't in this darkne—"

"No!" He exploded, wincing as he grabbed his still burning throat. "Keep…searchin'!"

"Goddammit, Daryl! Listen to reason!" Maggie hit the wheel in desperation. She was at the end of her wits and she could feel uncontrollable madness bubbling up to the surface. "It's too dark to see. I got no idea where we even are. We need to go back to the prison. You need to get your neck properly taken care of otherwise it's gonna get infected." She breathed in deeply as her cheeks heated up in frustration. Her voice now took a more even and calm tone, something Daryl was not at the moment. "We'll get everyone out here tomorrow and search for Oscar and Samara. Right now, we're only gonna get ourselves lost or killed. I get it Daryl. I wanna find them too, but I know my limitations. I can't do it in the dark."

Please, her mind screamed, she couldn't do this anymore.

Daryl bit his lower lip as he gripped his hair in hopelessness. He couldn't leave her behind. He had left her once to the walkers and he had tortured himself for it for a long time. This time, she was in the hands of humans, who were infinitely more vicious and perverted than their undead neighbors. If he left her now, it would be betrayal.

But what was there to do? They were just driving blindly with no direction, even he knew that. But that sliver of hope wouldn't let him abandon his search. He was alive. It was his duty to find those that were lost.

Daryl looked out into the night. Only nothingness awaited them as they drove with no hope in sight.

 _Samara._

He wanted her back, safe and with him. He didn't care if she gave him the cold shoulder or looked at him if he were an insect to be squashed. He'd rather have her a shrew than a cold corpse. But Maggie was right. They were too high-strung. They needed to rest and recharge their batteries for the days to come. They needed all their people out here covering more ground.

 _But..._

Something venomous darkened the hunter's gaze. There was a pitch blackness in them that even the night sky couldn't compare to. All good feeling seemed to evaporate, leaving only hate and rage eagerly awaiting to be unleashed upon his source of fury.

He swore if those bastards hurt her, they won't ever see the light of day again. His friends, his people had forgotten that he hadn't always been such an upstanding individual. Underneath it all he was still Daryl Dixon, brother of Merle Dixon, the vagabonds from Georgia's countryside. Samara wasn't the only one left who could be exceptionally merciless.

"…Fine."

He didn't hear Maggie's gratefulness nor did he feel the car turn in the opposite direction. The only thing he could hear were his own equally brutal thoughts, eating him alive and feeding his imagination.

Soon. He'll get her back soon and then, together with her, wreak havoc on those assholes.

* * *

"Found a crowbar."

Samara and Oscar gently rummaged through the junk left in the cellar. There was a blanket of fine webs covering the room with all manners of insects crawling about.

The smell was suffocating. Ever since she first stepped inside the room, a wave of rust, old blood, dampness and putrefaction hit her like a cannonball. It was disgusting and Samara instantly knew that many have shed blood here, some even breathed their last breath.

–This was a tomb.

"I got two hammers."

Oscar found the instruments in a toolbox. They were arming themselves with whatever was usefull for their survival. There was no time for games or jokes, they were gambling with their very lives. One mistake and it was lights out for both of them.

Samara wasn't afraid, though. She was just going through the motions with an air of impending doom. Right now, there was nothing that could shine the light back in her eyes. Her mind and body were on autopilot.

Inventory check: a crowbar, two hammers, some wire and screwdrivers. Not much, but enough to get out of this room.

Oscar took the thinnest screwdriver and headed up the stairs towards the door. A spark of amusement lit up somewhere deep inside at the sight of the ex-con lock-picking the door. She could see a bead of sweat rolling down the side of his temple. Opening the door wasn't complicated. The lock was old-fashioned and easy to pick, but the sound it made was. It was harsh and loud and Oscar was very careful of revealing their intentions to the whole house.

Click.

Oscar breathed in relief as the lock opened quietly.

The house had been silent for the past hour. The two had waited for longer than that in their initial position, fearing that anyone would come downstairs and find them out of their bonds. Now was the time to make their getaway.

They listened for what seemed like an eternity for any footsteps or other human produced sounds. Except for a loud snore they couldn't hear anything beside the wind seeping through the cracks in the windows.

Oscar was the first to leave, followed closely by Samara. They were in a hallway with barely any visibility. Ahead there two openings on both sides with a staircase on the right, just shy of the openings. If they were lucky there was nobody in those two rooms.

Tensions were high as cold sweat pooled on Samara's forehead. She could feel the fine hairs on the back of her neck stand at attention. Vigilance was first priority, but there was something else on Samara's mind now that she was out of her cage. It bloomed out of her gut and took her by surprise. She felt it in the air, on her skin, in her own bones. Her blood was burning hot coals as primal instinct took over.

It was time to hunt.

—Time to kill.

"Oscar."

The man turned and knew something was amiss. The woman had been passive throughout this ordeal, but now there was a pitch darkness that hollowed out the very pit of her soul. It was like looking in the abyss. Oscar had seen this nothingness before in inmates condemned for murder. Those black, marble eyes always sparked a deep rooted fear inside him.

"Get out on your own." Her fingers hurt from the pressure used to squeeze the crowbar. She desperately wanted to use it, preferably on something soft and squishy. "I have something to take care of."

"Oh, hell no." Even in the darkness, it didn't take a genius to figure out what she wanted to do, not with that blatant death stare. "You're not goin' on some crazy rampage."

"That's not up to you. This is my decision."

"Look, here." Her gripped her arm tightly, frustrated with this delay. "I knew there was somethin' strange about you the first time I saw you and it's not because you were a marshal. There's somethin' dark hidin' inside you that scares the shit out of me. I know you wanna kill 'em because of Daryl, but _don't_ do it."

"Why not?"

"Because you're just gonna get yourself killed like an idiot, and what will that accomplish?" They were losing time with each second debating. "Do you think he would want this?"

"He's dead. He doesn't want anything."

The coldness in which she spoke had Oscar lose hope of getting through her thick skull.

"Samara." His grip tightened as his eyes settled into determination. They might not be friends, but he wasn't going to let her throw her life away. He still needed her to get out of this hellhole. "You're seconds away from doin' murder. That will make you no better than Tomas or any of the other inmates I was locked up in. The ones you spent your life puttin' away. You really want that?"

She grimaced, showing her teeth like a cornered animal. His words got through to her though, as light cleared the murky void. Sanity returned to her mind once again and Oscar breathed in relief. The marshal was back, not wholly, but enough to listen to reason.

"We'll get out of here and I swear to you, the first thing we'll do is hunt down these fuckers and you can get your vengeance. Trust me when I say this, I wanna get a swing at these assholes too."

Samara took a shuddering breath as she caged the beast inside her.

 _Soon. These people's days are numbered. That I swear._

 _For him and for Maggie._

"Alright."

Oscar nodded before resuming their escape, every now and then looking behind him to see if she hadn't disappeared like a ghost in the night. But Samara kept to her word and followed right behind as they reached the openings. Both took to each side and with labored breaths, Samara checked her room for signs of danger. The living room was empty as the windows were boarded up and furniture moved around. The kitchen was the same, empty and ransacked.

"Where are they?"

"Upstairs."

There wasn't an interior guard. Most likely outside, walking the grounds or on the roof to watch the entire area for threats. At least, that's what Samara would have done.

"Come on, let's go." Oscar indicated the front door.

"No. Too obvious. If there's a guard outside, he's going to be in the front."

"Then let's go back. I saw a door at the back of the hallway."

They moved as quiet as mice, careful of the shoddy floorboards. Old houses had a tendency to creak as Samara had experienced before.

Oscar opened the unlocked back door and perused the area. The darkness offered no visibility and the stillness in the air was eerie. The wall of the building was bare save for an entrance to the cellar which was chained and a few garbage containers. Green fields surrounded the house with only a patch of forest a distance away. They would have to run quite a long way before hitting treeline, over fences and wild vegetable grounds.

 _Nothing can ever be easy._

They both stepped outside the house, careful of the rotten stairs. As soon as they thought they were in the clear, a beam of light had them freeze in dread. The source was the roof of the house as Samara had predicted. Like rabbits, they flattened themselves against the building's wall, sweat pouring down their skin. The beam was nowhere near the house, but it was searching for threats in the form of trespassers, alive or undead. They probably thought that their captives had no means of escape and slept soundly.

"Now what?" Oscar hissed in frustration.

"We wait until the light goes out." Right now, the sentry was on alert and any movement in the dark would have that light shine on them within a moment's notice. Most likely, the sentry was just checking every now and then to conserve power. As soon as it went dark, Samara was sure that whoever was up there would be in repose. That was their chance.

A minute. Two.

Darkness reigned.

Samara breathed easily. They had one thing less to worry about now.

She held up a sign for Oscar to stay still. It wasn't the time to move yet. The Native feared that the sentry would still have this area in sight. It was best to be sure first before moving.

A full few minutes of heavy tension passed before Samara took a peak towards the roof. The sentry was there, but with his back turned. It was the old man judging by his larger frame. Samara gave the go. They would head towards the treeline and disappear into the forest. Braving the night in the woods was preferable to staying in that dank basement, awaiting their fate.

Everything was going too smoothly, Samara thought as they walked alongside the house. There had been no hitch in their escape plan, but at any moment the course could be altered. Samara always prepared for the worse because it was to be expected.

As they walked in the sentry's dead spot, Samara would steal glances at the man above. She needed to be sure he wouldn't look back and see them running like crazy through the field.

Now was their chance if they made a run for it as silently as possible. If they got past the first fence, Samara knew the lantern's range wouldn't reach the distance. The moon was hidden behind rain clouds so they had nature on their side. The only hitch was getting to that fence undetected.

She pointed towards the first borderline and showed up three fingers. Oscar understood as he licked his lips in anticipation.

"You go first." Samara whispered in a calm and collected tone, but her heart was anything but. It drummed against her rib cage like a piston. "I'll keep my eyes on the back and on the guard."

One finger.

Oscar fidgeted as a bead of sweat rolled down to his chin.

Two fingers.

Samara licked her sudden dry lips.

Thr—

The back door opened with a loud screech of rust.

The two froze as their hearts dropped into their stomachs. Samara was the first to react as she shoved Oscar back into the wall and they flattened themselves against it, wishing they could become one with it.

A man walked out, oblivious to their presence, as he made his ways a few feet from the house. The light shined on him and he cursed out loud.

"Fuck sake's, Winchester. It's me."

It was the wild twin.

"The hell are you doin' in the dead of night, boy?"

"Taking a piss, what else." He waved the man off, but the light persisted, blinding the half-asleep young man. "Now if you'll excuse me, old man, I got business to take care of, or do you wanna see my dick?"

A scoff resounded before the light disappeared.

"Thank you." The young man mockingly said before opening his fly and relieving himself.

Now, this was what was called 'between a rock and a hard place'. If they ran, they'll be seen. If they remained, they'll be seen. So then, the only solution was to remain invisible.

She subtlety signaled Oscar to follow. They needed to round up on the corner of the house and disappear from their captors immediate sight. It would put them at a disadvantage as they would be further away from the nearest patch of the fence, but there was no choice.

Later, Samara would wonder if her small suspicion of the smoothness of their plan didn't jinx her in the end.

Crash!

A raccoon toppled over one of the garbage containers as they passed it and scuttled through the night, hissing in resentment at the humans that disturbed his midnight snack.

Samara felt the world crack and splinter.

The light shined on them within moments.

 _Oh…shit._

"What the?" She heard the old man rise to his feet in a bluster.

" _Hijo de puta!"_

The twin barely tucked himself back in when Oscar had the inspiration to throw one of his hammers, hitting the Hispanic right in the chest. The young man doubled over and fell on his behind, heaving from the lack of air.

"Run! Now!"

Oscar shouted before taking flight. Their careful movements went out the window the moment they were caught in the act. Now, it was every man for himself. Get to the treeline using whatever means possible.

Samara felt time slow down. Bullets showered the lawn, missing Oscar at every turn. The old man wasn't trying to kill, just stop his escape. Like a soldier through a war zone, Oscar ran as fast as his feet could take him. The Hispanic was rising to his feet with difficulty while fumbling for his handgun, still unable to breath properly. Curses and shouts came from the house and she knew the others were wide awake now.

The window of opportunity was closing in fast and the Native was losing ground. Propelling herself off the wall, she joined Oscar in their run. He had a good few feet in front of her, but she was faster than his heavy built.

Bang.

 _Fuck!_

The old man almost shot her foot off! Either he had great accuracy or she had been very lucky, and she had an inkling it was the latter.

She had to reach the treeline otherwise she'll be shot by accident.

"Hey, stop!"

Winchester shouted, but Samara shut her ears off to him. Freedom was close and she was going to reach it. The first fence was just a few meters ahead. She won't become anyone's entertainment.

It wasn't for her, though. That advice.

She found that out a few seconds later as a bullet split the skin of her upper arm open. She didn't even stop as blood flowed freely, the adrenaline keeping her from feeling any pain.

But she did hear _it_ as if it happened right next to her ear and it gave pause to her overloaded brain.

The reloading of a handgun, specifically of a Desert Eagle.

 _That fucking asshole is going to shoot again!_

Right then, the backdoor of the house burst open and out came the leader and the woman, rifles out and aiming.

This was a terrible situation. It might be dark outside, but with the old man shining out their position they were easy targets. They were going to get seriously hurt.

"Come on!" Oscar shouted with labored breaths from the vigorous activity. "We're almost there!"

Half a minute and they would reach the fence, but Samara was sure they wouldn't make it past ten seconds. The wild twin was angry and he was focusing that rage on killing them, forgetting completely that they needed them alive.

Bullets flew and Samara's heart leaped into her throat. At any second she could receive one right into her heart or head. Time was running out.

Click.

Samara's eyes widened. _No…_

"You motherfuckers! Stop or I will kill you!"

"Run, marshal!"

The Native felt her brain torn—stop or run. Chance or passivity.

 _Oh gods._

There wasn't any time left to decide.

She felt it then. The hairs on her arms rose and her skin pin-pricked. There was a swelling in her chest, filled with dread and grave anticipation. That man was going to shoot and her self-preservation was telling her that this time she won't be able to avoid death if she continued.

Samara made her decision.

She threw herself to the ground.

Bang!

Her heartbeat echoed louder than any old bell ever could.

 _Thump-thump._

Her mouth fell open as she watched with stupefaction.

Oscar came to a slow jog before he stopped completely and fell to his knees. A gurgle come from deep within his chest as a blot of crimson grew on the center of his back. The Native watched in horror as Oscar's shirt stuck to his back from the blood sinking into the material.

There was too much blood, Samara thought in certain distress. It meant that the main blood pumping organ had been hit.

She bit her lip bloody as tears of frustration pooled at her lower eyelids.

—This was Oscar's death rattle.

All other sound was muted to her ears, all except for Oscar. Her attention was solely focused on the man before her as life slipped from his grasp like sand in an hourglass. Such a strange thing…watching life leave someone's body. It was an inexplicable fraction in time. Samara had been in such situations before and each time it had been different. A shadow of an emotion always managed to cross the dying man's eyes whether it be regret or relief or anger or some other. She'd even seen happiness and always wondered what would the next victim feel in their dying moments.

 _What is Oscar feeling? Liberation? Sorrow? Joy for leaving this ugly world behind?_

 _Please don't be angry. In a twisted way, you won. You won't have to die degraded and cheered as spectacle. Take comfort in knowing they failed in their task._

"Olivia…Matthew…is that you?" Oscar spoke in dazed surprise as he looked on in the distance. A soft smile passed his lips and a bloodied hand reached out for his specters.

Samara felt a tear slide down her cheek, as helplessness and anger balled her hands into fists.

 _I'll do everything in my power to take these people down with me, in whatever form I can._

Oscar coughed one last time before he fell to the side, his last breath leaving his dying lungs.

A crippling silence ruled over the fields, only the wind moaning dolefully in mourning.

Samara knew that the man would never rise back up again.

A man—a comrade—just died. Another one fell…

The Native felt hands turning her over and the last thing she saw before the void took over was the end of a rifle descending upon her.

* * *

Crack!

Samara felt her nose break.

"You stupid bitch! Look what you did!"

Another punch in the face and her cheek split open. Blood dribbled out of the corner of her mouth as her head hung to the side. She could see a small red pool collect on the ground, the only problem was that it was in double. Her vision was hazy at best since she had been hit with a rifle and there was a ringing in her ears that grated on her nerves. It was probably a concussion as even thinking was hard to accomplish.

After they had captured her again, they had painfully strapped her to a chair with no chance of escaping. She had lost her chance and with it, Oscar.

"Because of you, we're one meat-sack short!" He kicked her in the stomach, making the chair topple over with her. Samara felt bile rise up in her throat, but kept herself from throwing up as it would only result in dirtying her face and hair. "You just had to try to escape, didn't you? Couldn't just stay put like a docile whore!"

He aimed to kick her again, but was restrained by Winchester. "Stop that, you idiot! Didn't you hear? We need her intact."

"Lemme go! I'll send this bitch to an early grave!"

"Settle down, you hot-headed idiot." Sadie snorted as she watched the younger man's struggle to get out of the secure chokehold. "It's your fault we're in this mess to begin with. You just had to shoot him, didn't you? You trigger-happy asshole!"

"My fault?!" He exploded in rage as the veins bulged on his forehead from the strain. "They were escaping! What was I supposed to do? Let them go with a smile and a wave?"

"How about not shooting to kill?" She glared angrily. "There were other ways to incapacitate that man."

"Enough!" The leader intervened, sick of this shouting contest. "The fact is consumed. We'll have to give _him_ just the woman."

The old man pushed the Hispanic away before straightening out his disheveled clothes. After glaring disapprovingly at the younger man, his gaze turned towards the leader.

" _He won't accept that and you know it."_ Even Samara in her half-assed state was able to detect the hidden warning.

" _What other choice do we have?"_ The leader knew, but his hands were tied. _"We haven't been able to find any able people for two months now. We can't delay any longer."_

Winchester walked up to him, but Samara still heard his whisper.

" _We should wait, Dani. It's stupid going in the lion's den with only a rat to offer. We might just end up on the dinner table instead."_

"Let's discuss this upstairs." He hissed before turning to the woman that was still in a standoff with his younger brother. "Sadie, stop the woman's bleeding and check her again. This time do it better. I don't want to wake up to another surprise."

The men leave, but not without the younger twin throwing the woman one last finger up in the air. She grimaced at his immaturity before rounding up on Samara. Even through the mist and pain, the Native could see the woman's black, frosty eyes and dismissive attitude in regards to her. This was someone who closed herself off to the outside world.

"That was a stupid thing you did."

Samara said nothing. Th woman's deep, rich voice reminded her of Michonne and it felt like she was being reprimanded for doing something reckless again.

"You just got your friend killed."

She didn't even wince at the scathing burn. There wasn't anything Samara could do. Oscar was dead and that fact couldn't be changed. There was no use in raging or crying at the heavens. The only thing she could do now was bide her time. Samara could be patient when she had a good motive and right now, she had all the patience in the world to completely destroy these people.

"Nothing, huh? Doesn't matter to me, you're just dead meat in my eyes." The woman heaved as she used her strength to raise the chair with Samara to a sitting position. "But you might want to save that strength of yours for what's about to come." Her eyes narrowed gravely as she ripped the sleeve of Samara's shirt to inspect her wound. "You'll need it."

Samara barely felt the woman's calculated prodding nor did she notice the tightening of her bonds. The Native let Sadie clean up her wound and bandage her up without a fuss or even a hiss of pain. There was nothing left to discuss, not with this woman at the least. The old man…he was her biggest chance of getting any information.

From one cop to another, if her suspicions were correct.

The woman left the room and Samara was finally alone with her thoughts. A dangerous position as Samara never did well in the quiet. Her mind had a tendency to wander into treacherous waters, barely able to keep afloat.

Oscar was _dead_.

She breathed out harshly.

If she were to be honest, Samara wasn't exactly deeply torn about it. She had scarcely known the man, but she had enjoyed her time playing baseball with him. He had been a good adversary.

She saved his life once, didn't she?

Deep inside, the Native felt that it had been her hand that had been stained with Oscar's blood even if they both had decided to escape.

 _No…_

The guilt stemmed from the fact that she hadn't ran along with Oscar in that fateful moment.

Why hadn't she, though? She knew why. At that moment, when she heard the click of the gun, her hyperactive brain knew there were fifty-fifty chances that he would hit one of them. Her self-preservation had locked her body in place and flattened her to the ground. In hindsight, it had been the right decision considering that it would have been her lying on the ground, dead, instead of Oscar.

That was why she hadn't joined him in the afterlife. She traded his life for hers. She had wanted to live another day.

She should have stopped him, though. Should have shouted out to him to stop, but didn't. She had made herself as unremarkable as possible so she wouldn't stand out as a threat. And for that, Oscar paid the price in blood.

Cowardly, but she was still standing.

Samara sighed in resignation. She had ended right back where she started, only now she was alone. Tomorrow, she'll be taken to this 'man' and become sport for his twisted games. Never in all her life, did she ever think she would end up in this position. After all those years of being the hunter, now she was the one being hunted. The prey.

A bitter taste was left in her mouth.

Movement at the corner of her eye. Winchester walked in the room and settled on the couch, his rifle resting snugly in his lap.

"Sleep. We're gonna leave early in the mornin'."

"I guess…" Samara met his eyes keenly. "Trying to appeal to you won't change your mind."

"You guessed correctly."

"You were police, right? Before the world went to shit."

The man frowned in confusion. "Now, how do you know that?"

"How you carry yourself screams cop from a mile off." Her eyes narrowed shrewdly. Primarily, she remembered the conversation in Spanish between him and the leader, or Dani as he was called, at the mall.

' _I bet my old badge', huh?_

"Heh, you got me. Was a homicide detective, actually." The man ruffled his long, unkempt hair with a small smirk. His smile fell immediately as a wave of nostalgia took over him, but not one born out of good memories. "Thirty years…a _goddamn_ long time. I thought I saw everythin' that was good and evil in this world, but I was mistaken. There's still so much to see."

"To do." Samara smirked scornfully.

The man didn't offer the Native any reaction. He knew what he was doing was against his old morals, but who was there to admonish him? He made peace with himself for his decisions and this woman could not touch him.

"As former law," Samara licked the smudges of dried blood left on her lips. The woman hadn't done a good job of cleaning up her face. "How the hell did you get mixed up with gang members?"

"Times change." His demeanor shifted back into its customary air of gloom. "As I said, get some rest. You'll need it."

 _Rest, huh?_

She almost laughed. Like that would resolve anything.

"At least, tell me this…" Her tone took on a unemotional edge, her eyes flattening into dullness. "What did you do with Oscar?"

"We didn't let him reanimate if that's what you're askin'." The man sighed in fatigue. He was too old for this. "Gonna take care of his body in the mornin'. Burn him up."

"Good."

Cremation was better than being ditched in some trench like worthless trash.

Samara let her head fall on the backrest. There was nothing else she wanted to speak about with the old man. She was weary herself and the cracks in the ceiling would prove a good replacement for counting sheep.

Either ways…Sleep won't be coming easily to her tonight, if at all.

No, she'll spend the reminder of the night thinking ways on how to fuck up this people. There was only one thought that kept repeating itself in her mind, turning itself into a mantra—

 _Kill them all._

* * *

 _ **Foot Note:**_ As I was writing this chapter, I listened to the track 'Molossus' from Batman Begins for the action part and the death part I listened to 'Journey to the Line' from The Thin Red Line. Really got me in the mood.

Also, I don't know why but I get the feeling that the writing quality of my work is declining…Sometimes, I feel like I just breeze through scenes because I just want to move on with the story. But I am happy that I don't need 10,000 or more words to make up a chapter even though I think some of you would like more reading material. Or maybe that's it, I _don't_ need so many words to describe certain scenes anymore.

What do you think? Honest opinion.


	32. Welcome to Woodbury

She couldn't see anything.

Right now, Samara was in the back of the van with Winchester and Sadie, being driven to the executioner's site.

Samara had barely slept a wink when the house sprang to life. She estimated maybe an hour passed before immediately and without answers, she had been moved around without even a scrap of food or water. She felt so _weak_. Her limbs dragged behind and there was a light dizziness about her. The blood loss and lack of any nourishment had finally caught up to her.

As soon as she took one step outside, she was hit with the powerful stench of smoke and burned meat.

 _Ah…_

 _They really did burn Oscar._

She hadn't been able to escape, after all. Samara knew she had no chance of even getting out of the moving van, not with her two guard dogs watching her every movement. The only thing she could do now was wait. She'll get her opportunity soon, Samara had no doubt.

"How long have you been doing this?"

"Does it matter?" She heard Sadie, but Samara had been hoping for Winchester to answer. He seemed to be the more open of the group.

"Too long." The old man finally spoke. He sounded drained, but then again he had this air of depression about him as if a dark cloud was always raining on him.

"Where are we going?"

They both are silent this time, but Samara persisted. She needed something. A small bit of information, a direction, anything to guide herself by.

"Let me at least know where I'm going to die."

"No."

That woman was seriously starting to piss her off.

"Woodbury."

She heard a rustle as it cloth had been hit.

"What's wrong with you?" Sadie hissed in annoyance. "Keep your mouth shut!"

"It doesn't matter is she knows or not, Sadie. She won't be able to escape those people even if she wanted to."

 _Woodbury…_

 _Why does that name sound familiar?_

She'd heard that name before, as if passing in a conversation. Did she see it on a map maybe?

"Aren't you tired of acting like mules?" She persisted as her mind worked furiously to remember the name. "Transporting bodies?"

For her curiosity she got a kick in the ankle.

"Shut up already." It had been Sadie. _That bitch_. "I liked you better when you were catatonic, or did killin' your friend finally wake you up?"

Samara's jaw set.

"Sadie." The old man reprimanded her.

"Shut up, old man…I don't really care why you're askin' all these question, but just stop already. They won't help you."

 _Ah…_

Everything was illuminated now.

 _Woodbury._

The town Michonne had wanted to ransack for supplies during those months on their own. Thank the gods they hadn't gone through with that plan otherwise they probably would've ended up dead a long time ago.

It wasn't too far from Newnan if she remembered correctly. About thirty-forty miles away. The drive alone would be just an hour, even less with the complete lack of traffic. Walking would be much longer, but if she got her hands on a car, it would be a breeze.

—But all of that was useless if she didn't get herself out of these bonds and away from these people.

The car took a sharp turn and the smoothness of the road changed to country potholes and dirt. She could hear pebbles thrown against the cat as the wheels spun. Woodbury was off Route 27, a country town barely on the map which meant it was small, maybe a few hundred residents. Most likely less since the outbreak. If woods surrounded it, she had cover when she ran, particularly at night. It wasn't like she hadn't spent countless nights in forests. The old superstitions of monster coming out of the woods had long ago left her. Now, she viewed them as a good hiding place or a means for setting up a good trap.

Barely ten minutes passed when the car came to a slow halt. She couldn't hear anything except for birds and crickets chirping and that had her uneasy. She knew it wasn't morning, maybe not even the crack of dawn. Her heart began jack-hammering in her chest and she hated this feeling of the unknown, but most importantly, she hated these people for putting her in this situation.

"Come on, marshal. It's time."

Winchester grabbed her by the arm and the van's door opened. She was guided out into the crisp, fresh air of early morning and she knew they weren't anywhere near a town. They were in a forest.

"What's going on?" Samara asked in trepidation. She didn't like this turn in events.

"We're gonna walk. Now, don't get startled."

Samara hissed as a gag was tied over her mouth.

"Sadie, stay behind." Dani commanded. "We'll be back in an hour."

All of them except the woman were out walking the dirt road. The morning air chilled Samara to the bone. She didn't have a jacket, just a T-Shirt and her already weakened body had a negative reaction to the bitter cold.

—Why had they left the van and Sadie behind? Wouldn't it be easier to drive inside the town?

 _Maybe…Dani's group isn't allowed._ They were outsiders to this town from what she understood. Perhaps Woodbury didn't trust them.

The sudden calling of an owl startled Samara. It wasn't a real one, just a human imitation, but it still scared the life out of her. Samara may not believe in her people's old superstitions, but sometimes her childhood fears slipped through her grip and swam to the surface. It made her feel hypocritical. Like those people that claim to be atheists, but in the face of death start praying to God like they were His most devoted followers.

Not a minute passed when the call was responded with a similar one. They were on the move again and Samara could hear three pairs of footsteps come towards them.

" _You're pretty late. You know you can only come here at night."_

A new voice. Hispanic also, judging from the fluency.

" _I know, but we couldn't come sooner."_

Dani was talking.

She wished she could see. It was excruciating not having any information, just basing everything on sound alone.

" _A woman? That's it?"_

" _Business is slow."_

She heard a sigh, an exasperated one.

" _He's not gonna be happy."_

They weren't talking about Oscar. The flicker of his existence wasn't even mentioned.

" _I guarantee this woman will fight. She's the feral type."_

" _Yeah, I can see that."_ The other snorted in derision. _"She's ten shades of black and blue. Eli, tell the Governor that they're here."_ He told his silent partner and not a second later Samara heard this man Eli running.

 _Governor…_

 _A title and not a name? He must be full of himself._

"Alright, you know the routine. Everything out in the open."

Samara heard the familiar sounds of guns being handled. Winchester and the others were disarming? Made sense. Samara would have proceeded the same if she invited wolves into her den.

She was pushed from behind and Samara took to walking again. Something big and rusty that sounded like metal moved and she knew it had been a gate. Once passed, there wasn't much background noise apart from several voices in hushed whisper.

 _Too early in the morning. Nobody is awake except for the lookouts._

Samara didn't know where they were going, but it wasn't a house as she heard a metal door slide. A hangar or a garage or something along those lines. The interior was cold and through the blindfold she could barely see any spark of light.

"Governor, good to see you again."

"Dani."

Slow, steady steps came towards her. Samara felt this Governor loom over her like Death, making the hairs on her arms stand up. She felt cornered, like an animal ready to be put down.

"I thought I said last time not to bring in anymore women."

This Governor had a southern twang to his voice, most likely Georgia born. This was _him_ , the leader. Standing just one foot away from her. She would have grimaced if it hadn't been for the gag.

"This one isn't like the last. She knows how to fight."

"Really?" His voice indicated anything but conviction. "Those bruises on your brother. Did she do that?"

"Yeah."

 _They just lied with a straight face._

This confirmed it. Dani was afraid of the repercussions that could arise from the truth. That was why they had gagged her. So she wouldn't talk.

"I see…You only get a quarter of the agreed ammunition."

"What? But—"

"You brought me _one_ person." Samara could hear the dominating power in the man's voice. "My people don't like seein' women torn to pieces, no matter how tough they are. Especially ones that are battered with blood smudged on their face. Lowers the morale and it's not entertainin' to see."

"This one will fight—"

"I don't give a shit!" He was beyond displeased. _Good_. "Fact of he matter is, I trade with you to bring people, not person. What the hell am I supposed to do with someone that will last maybe one round in the pit? If I had more people I could stretch the fights to a month before I'd need your services again. Now, I need them all over again."

"…We'll find you more even if we have to scour all of Georgia. I promise you."

"You better. I'm gettin' tired of these mistakes you make."

And this just gave Samara an idea. This Governor was already irritated. How livid would he be when he learned that they had another prisoner who was killed out of anger?

Muffled sounds came from behind the gag as she writhed in Winchester's hold.

"Stop it!" The old man whispered harshly.

His fingers squeezed her right arm just below her wound and she could feel tiny impulses of agony travel to her brain. Tiny black spots clouded Samara's vision, but she fought through it. She was done listening to others.

"Take that gag off." The Governor commanded with a hint of annoyance. "Your prisoner seems to have somethin' to say."

Instant tension. Winchester's body went rigid and she knew this was her one chance.

—Her chance to make these people pay _dearly_.

"She's just gonna curse you out." The other twin spat irately. "This bitch can't keep her mouth shut."

"Martinez."

Within moments, she felt the gag ripped out of her mouth as a thin strip of saliva remained connected to the material.

"They're feeding you bullshit!" Samara spat the excess saliva. "I didn't do that to the nimrod! My friend did!"

Slap!

"Shut up, _puta_!" The young twin slapped her in ire. She could feel the sting rattling her brain, heightening the ache in her still dreadfully tender nose. Sadie hadn't even had half a brain to straighten it out. She must look like a worn-out boxing bag. No wonder the Governor was cross.

"There was another?"

A hint of danger.

"Yeah, he didn't make it."

But Dani was as impenetrable as ever.

"That idiot killed hi—!"

This time her hair got pulled harshly, ripping out several strands and punched in the stomach. Samara fell to her knees coughing, supported by Winchester who shielded her from the twin's further wrath.

A scuffle broke out as she heard several men move and wrestle. Someone was restraining the twin as he spat out curses in Spanish.

"Enough!"

The Governor's shout had the tension diffuse, but that hint of menace was now as palpable as a thick fog.

"Settle down, Micah!" His brother hissed vehemently.

 _Micah. Dani. Winchester. Sadie._

She had all their names now.

"Why was the other killed?"

"He tried to escape along with her. They wouldn't listen so my brother shot him. He didn't mean to kill him, though. Just wound him enough to stop running."

"Liar…" Samara couldn't stop herself. All that antagonism was pouring out in hopes that they would get their due. They couldn't leave this place unscathed. She wouldn't _allow_ it. "He knew what he was doing. He shot to kill."

A hand covered her mouth and Samara knew that Winchester was doing everything to control the damage she was unleashing.

"That bitch is lying!" Desperation. _Even better._ "I didn't mean to kill him!"

"I see…" The Governor's voice took on a smooth tenor, like a cat about to pounce on the canary. "And yet, you _lied_ about it."

"I didn't think it was vital to tell you." Dani interjected, trying to win back the man's favor. "It would only piss you off."

"And you are right. It does." The cat was coming closer to the small, defenseless bird, it's claws shining deadly. "Instead of what you promised me, you deliver me this beaten down woman."

"She might be beaten right now, but trust me, this bitch would rip out our throats if given the chance."

Silence.

Whatever exchange was happening Samara was blind to it. It was all just a waiting game now.

"This is the second time you disappoint me, there won't be a third. From this moment, I conclude our agreement."

—It felt like the pin just dropped.

A storm was brewing so rapidly that Samara could feel it at the back of her throat. It did _wonders_ to her stomach as it was moments away from relieving itself.

"The hell are you talking about?"

Dani's voice was on alert. Samara knew what a cornered person sounded like. She'd spent years cornering people in tight places with no room to escape.

Winchester left her side and rose to his feet. Samara was now the least of his problems.

" _We need to get out of here, Dani. Now!"_

She heard him whisper. He had known from the beginning that things would go sideways, probably why he carried that air of negativity around him all morning. _Once a cop, always a cop._

"Fuck no! I'm not leaving without my supplies."

"You really don't understand the predicament you're in, do you?" The Governor spoke lowly. "I need fighters to keep my people happy and lo and behold, I have _three_ right in front of me."

 _Oh…_

Samara grinned.

From that point on, all hell broke loose.

Samara kept herself to the ground as grunts and growls of aggression echoed harshly into the room. Knuckles hit flesh as the inevitable shout of pain and hysteria came. Taking her cue, Samara crawled away in safety and hit a metal wall, flattening herself against it. She didn't want to be killed accidentally.

"Eli!"

A thud.

Something heavy just dropped.

The fight went on, but it didn't take long for it to come to a standstill. She could hear people struggling, most likely the captives who she could bet weren't the Governor's men.

"Eli! Fuck, man!"

Gurgle.

 _Someone's dying.._

"Get Stevens here!"

"…Too late. He's gone."

"Fuck!" The Governor cursed as he paced restlessly. Soon, he came to a stop and gone was his prior agitation. His voice solidified itself back into steel. "Do it, Shumpert."

 _Shumpert._

A disgusting squelch and Samara knew that this Eli just got a knife to the head. So, these people were aware that they all could reanimate even from a natural death.

"You son of a bitch!" Micah shouted unevenly as if his voice was constricted. "Let us go!"

"That ain't possible. Not after what you just did."

"We did what you asked! Always!" Dain shouted distressed, that mask of iron finally coming off. "We've been working with you for almost a year! At least let us go!"

"I told you he won't be happy. Reap what you sow, _pendejos_."

"Take them to the cells and Martinez, you take the woman to Dr. Stevens. Tell him to patch her up and give me a full detailed report on her condition. Shumpert, take a few men and bring Sadie in. Their van can't be too far away."

"Understood, sir. What about Eli?"

"…I'll take care of it."

Samara was once again led around, but at the moment she wasn't angry or sad. She was _glad_.

If she was going down, she might as well take everyone down with her.

* * *

"You're nose's broken."

"No shit. You needed a medical degree to figure that out?"

Sight had returned to Samara's world as the blindfold and cuffs had been taken off. She was in a small clinic by the looks of it, empty save for herself, the doctor and her guard Martinez who was near the door watching her attentively. His finger was poised on the trigger of his rifle, ready to shoot if she did anything undesirable. Martinez was probably around Samara's age with dark hair, dark eyes and pleasant features.

The smell of death lingered in the air like a bad memory. Samara felt suffocated, drowned in a sea of antiseptics, sickness and the coppery scent of blood. She _hated_ hospitals. Had only bad memories associated with them.

It didn't take long for the doctor to appear, still dressed in his night clothes. The one the Governor called Stevens barely even looked at Samara as he got to work on her. He was a tall, pale man in his late forties with grey hair, sporting small rectangular glasses. He had a cranky air about him. Definitely displeased for being woken up so early.

"No, I also don't need a degree to dislike sarcasm." He gave her the hairy eyeball. "I can see it's been broken before and set back, not exactly straight but enough. Now, I'm gonna set it back and this time properly. I don't think I need to tell you it's gonna hurt."

Samara prepared herself for the worst. The memory of a few months back had her wince in phantom pain. She grimaced once more as the man carefully prodded her nose.

Without even a warning, the man rapidly set it back creating a multicolored cosmos before her eyes. She cursed foully as the doctor wiped his hands on a towel.

"Well, now that we got that out of the way, let's take care of the shoddy work they did on your arm."

"Weren't you supposed to count to three?!" Samara barked as a thin strip of blood poured out of her nose.

Her sudden shout had Martinez's fingers tense on the rifle, but he backed down once Samara posed no threat.

"If you were a child, yes, but you're a big girl, you can take it."

"Up your ass, Dr. Frankenstein." Tears of pain leaked out as Samara gingerly cupped her nose. _Ow…_

"Very _cute_."

Samara waited for the clinical prodding to end. He wasn't like Hershel. For one, he knew what he was doing. He was a medic, not a veterinarian. Two, he wasn't gentle. His method was the same as every other doctor jaded by human suffering—mechanical and unfeeling.

—She preferred the old man over this robot.

"It's only a graze. Slightly infected, but nothin' that can't be treated with a few antibiotics."

He finished stitching up her arm. Samara barely felt it, however. She'd had worse injuries before, this was just a small cut in retrospect.

Next were her wrists. The skin was raw and there was blood crusted over. The procedure stung like thousands of needles pricking her skin all at once. Peeling off the scabs was even worse. She wondered if this is what Randal felt when Dar—

 _No. Don't think his name._

"The infection is worse here. You shouldn't move your hands too much, not until the wound is treated. The infection will wear out in a day or two with antibiotics, but I'm still gonna change your bandages later. Now, I need to ask you some questions." The doctor sighed tiredly as he picked up a clipboard with some papers on them, unaware that he had just broken through a sudden panic that seized the Native.

Samara endured with a grain of salt the long line of inquiries. Did she have any allergies? Reactions to medications? Hereditary illnesses?

 _Blah…Blah…Blah…_

She didn't see the point to all this. It was all meaningless in hindsight. They were just fattening up the pig for the slaughter.

"I noticed that you have somethin' underneath your shirt and it ain't a tank-top."

Martinez tensed, ready for anything.

"It's a medical corset." Samara gave the armed man a deadpan look. _What? Does he think I'm hiding weapons of mass destruction in my cleavage?_

"For?"

"My back. I fell half a year ago."

"You still experience pain?"

"On occasion."

"How strong?"

Samara shrugged. "Sometimes I can just brush it off and other times I feel like I'm on fire."

"Have you treated it with any medication?"

A small, satirical smirk. "Painkillers. I'm not on them anymore, though."

The man wrote quickly and Samara peeked at his writing. Typical of doctors, it was barely decipherable.

"Alright." The man threw the clipboard on his desk and stifled a yawn. "That's all I needed."

"Why even bother?" She asked, her eyes thinning shrewdly. "I'm just going to get killed."

"Look," The man sighed, the weariness even more prominent. It wasn't in his body, but in his soul. "Trust me when I say that I am the last person who would ever send you or anyone for that matter to that place. I _abhor_ this idea the Governor came up with, but there's nothin' I can do about it. I've tried, believe me. Nothin's gonna change." His voice took a dive, distant and meek as a summer breeze. "I'm just gonna yell my head off and he won't hear a single thing I said."

He'd done this before, Samara realized. He had tried to stop this perversion and failed, or maybe he had been just put in his place, hence the submissiveness.

"Hey, you two lovebirds chatted enough?" Martinez had heard their conversation and was beyond displeased. The glower he gave Stevens was chastising. "Doc, you remember what happened all those months ago? Stop with that talk, especially in front of a stranger. Nothing good will come out of it."

Stevens waved him off, but he did listen.

Samara quieted down as she was reluctant to get in trouble so early with her captors. There was time for that later when she knew more about them and her situation.

"Thanks for patching me up at least." Samara jumped off the bed and rolled her stiff shoulders. Her arms hurt from their continuous position behind her back for so many hours and from the plastic further cutting into her skin. "And just so you know, I'm not going to be the one lying in the morgue."

"That's what they all say…" It was a secondhand phrase. He must be used to cocky prisoners thinking they were the main character in the story, the ones protected by the author from all harm. The world didn't work that way, though.

Walking over to a cabinet filled with medication, Stevens took out a familiar orange container. Cold sweat broke out at the sight of it.

"Here, painkillers for your injuries. I'll give you another one tomorrow."

Samara looked at the white pill with pursed lips. Her days addicted to that small thing came crashing down. Even her body remembered. _Oh_ , it did with the way it _craved_ it. It felt like every fiber of her being was pushing her towards it.

 _Swallow it, Samara. It will make everything feel all better._

"Is somethin' the matter?"

She licked her parched lips. Her throat was drier than the Kalahari Desert as her hands began to tremble. Should she take it or should she deal with the inevitable consequences of her injuries on her own?

 _Fuck it._

She was walking the green mile after all.

"…No."

Samara crushed the pill between her teeth. Come what may, at least she could be numb for a few hours.

The doctor gave her a peculiar look, but didn't offer any comments.

"Before you go, I'm gonna ask you to take off any jewelry you have."

Samara's brows rose in incredulity. _Really?_

"Policy." The man shrugged.

As Samara unhooked her earrings and necklace, she heard the man speak under his breath.

"I'm not a brave man. I'm sorry. I truly am." He was truly remorseful. As a medic, they had the Hippocratic Oath to uphold. To keep people alive and healthy, but he was thoroughly breaking it with heavy guilt in his heart.

Samara didn't care. She just viewed him as a potential aid in her escape, no more than an object.

"Tell me, doctor." She whispered low enough so that Martinez couldn't hear. "Is there any way for me to escape?"

"No."

It was absolute with no room for change. The man had no faith that anyone could leave Woodbury, not alive anyway. The body bag was her only answer.

"But, if you can't beat 'em, join 'em." There was a defeatist light in his eyes. "That's what I did…"

Martinez slapped a pair of metal cuffs on her, not even gentle despite her wounds, and guided Samara out of the room. The blindfold was slipped right back on and, again, the light was taken from her.

* * *

 _It's cold._

Her guard pushed her inside her cell and took off the blindfold. It was a small room with a mattress on the floor, a toilet with a sink in the corner and just a weak light bulb to illuminate the interior. Standard homemade prison cell.

The handcuffs were taken off and Samara was left alone without a word.

With bleak eyes she inspected her meager belongings. The mattress was coated in old bloodstains and dirt and she was reluctant to sleep there. She wouldn't even look at the toilet, fearing what was inside it.

 _Now what?_

Her assailants were in the same boat as her, but she was nowhere near reaching her ultimate goal. At least, she could comfort herself in knowing that they will meet the same fate as her. Karma was a bitch, after all.

' _If you can't beat 'em, join 'em.'_

Was that her only option?

 _No._ There had to be a way out…But if there wasn't, then she had to speak with the Governor somehow. Strike a deal. Anything to get herself out of this predicament. If she had to lower herself to survive, then so be it. She was a hyena after all, a carrion eating one. No way in hell she'll let herself be devoured by others.

She needed to plan, but in this silence, her mind could only focus on the image of _his_ face, struggling to breathe.

" _Goddammit, kill me instead!"_

Samara gasped.

Her body started shaking. Slowly, she slid to the floor hugging herself tight as her foundations began to crumble. It felt like a volcano was about to erupt within her. Cupping her mouth, Samara held back the scream that threatened to come out. There was a horrible, black feeling churning in the pit of her stomach, threatening to eat her alive. If she didn't stop it in time, she knew everything will crumble to dust.

 _Deep, deep breaths._

 _Calm down._

Samara sniffled as she took deep, loud gasps.

 _Repress all those memories. This isn't the time._

She wiped the tears that gathered at her eyelashes.

 _Focus on your goals. Let those be what drives you forward._

It took minutes for her to calm down, but for Samara it felt like decades had passed while she slowly withered away. Like a mummy, only bones and ash left behind.

Falling to the floor, she crawled into a fetal position and waited out for the drugs to kick in. In this despairing moment, she welcomed the numbness that had been her best friend all winter. The fact that she had suffered through days of gruesome pain and weeks of keeping herself clean was insignificant in the face of what was to follow.

This was a welcome respite.

* * *

"Did you find anythin'?"

"Nothin'." Daryl sighed as he stared out into the vast emptiness that was now the Georgia countryside. "No skid marks…no tracks."

"Shit!"

Rick spat as he raked his hair in frustration. Daryl swore that the former sheriff was even more worried than he himself was.

Hours had passed aimlessly searching for signs of their missing people.

Everything was bleak. From his insides to the sky's grey color. Daryl felt hope slip through his fingers as they found no trace.

The hunter winced as he massaged his bandaged throat. It still hurt, even after Hershel had properly taken care of it. Talking was still a problem, but at least the strain was diminishing. It will take some days before he could start talking fluently again. Hershel had recommended he speak only when necessary, as if he had been a chatterbox before his injury.

Behind the bandage he knew there was a scar. A bleak reminder of what had happened that will never go away.

—He had been hanged.

The thought still haunted him, leaving him in a suspended state. He felt like he was walking on clouds, light as a feather. Never had Daryl been so close to death than in that moment. For all intents and purposes, he _had_ been clinically dead. Even Hershel had been stunned by his miraculous escape out of the Reaper's clutches. It all felt so _surreal_. The old man claimed it was the shock still coursing through him, but Daryl preferred to not think about it. He had other things on his mind than his close brush with death.

Maggie was more or less fine. She herself had a close call with the walkers from what he had found out later. Would have been bitten if she hadn't used her jacket as a shield. Just the memory of it had her jump at every noise and it would be a while until her scarred psychic would heal.

"We should search the towns closest to Columbus." Michonne walked up to them, Tyreese not far behind. The woman was high-strung, her muscles locked and her eyes sharp as a hawk's. "They couldn't have made base too far from the mall."

"Or they could have set up in one of the hundreds of farm houses near here." Daryl added, more than sure that those people holed up somewhere in an abandoned house. That way nobody could hear if the prisoners screamed.

He grimaced at that thought.

"Or they could have camped somewhere for the night before heading out to their actual hideout miles away." There were hundreds of options and they didn't have enough men, Rick thought. This wasn't like before with Sophia. They had had an area they knew to search, even a location, but this…This was hundreds of miles of possibilities.

"One group searches the towns, the other the houses off the main road." Tyreese advised evenly. "We're not getting anywhere searching the roads."

Rick nodded. This was the only option left. They had to divide their forces and search every possibility.

"All right. My group searches the towns while Daryl's group searches the farms. If the area's clear, move on to the next. If you do find somethin', don't do anythin' rash. We'll regroup and plan ahead."

His team consisted of Glenn, Maggie, Tyreese and Sasha while Daryl had Michonne, Andrea and Axel. At first, Daryl had wanted to go on his own. He was faster this way, but Rick wouldn't have it. Right now, there was too much bottled rage in the man. Rick knew about Samara and Daryl. He wasn't privy to the extent of their… _relationship,_ and he wasn't about to pry, but he knew…If Daryl found those people, he'd most likely act impulsively. Having others with him was an insurance that he wouldn't go rogue and get himself killed.

Daryl signaled his crew to get ready for the country road. Waiting on them, he kept his hands busy with checking his guns even thought he had done this twice already. The loss of his crossbow was another problem. He could feel it right into his bones as if he had lost a limb instead. Those cocksuckers took all their weapons, including his. Another reason to want to make them hurt.

His movements on his rifle slowed as memories assaulted him. When they had returned to the prison without half of their group everyone had exploded with fear and horror and wrath. They had to physically restrain Michonne and Andrea from going out on the road, Axel fell into a deep silence and Beth started crying. Everyone was worried and he had noticed Rick's reaction. The Kentucky man had kept himself in control, but Daryl had seen the cracks in his stoic mask.

A part of him had hated him for that, but the other was ashamed to face him. Daryl had seen the veiled glint of blame that sparked for a fraction of a moment in his friend's blue eyes. Gone had been his usual calmness, transformed instead into icebergs. The tip barely out of the water and he was sure underneath it was a ferocity atypical of him.

Rick didn't need to make him feel guilty. He already did, and it was crushing his soul. At that moment, he couldn't protect her. Hadn't been able to do anything except die and even that didn't help. And now, she was far away. Probably never to be see again.

—They had had no luck with Sophia, why would she be any different?

He felt like the walls were closing in on him. He was suffocating as his stomach tied itself in knots. Even the sight of food had him want to throw up.

This was all too familiar. It felt like losing his brother all over again. Losing a part of himself, all the while left without certainty of their survival. He was yet again left in the dark.

"Come on, man." A pat on the back surfaced him out of his gloom. "We're leavin'."

Axel indicated the others who were up and waiting for his leadership.

 _Leader…_

Daryl wasn't one. Didn't deserve to be thought of as one. Leaders were supposed to protect, to keep everyone safe. What did he do? He sent his people into a red flag zone knowing that something was amiss. They should have left the moment he got that weird inkling. His instincts had never been wrong before, he shouldn't have doubted them then.

—It was all _his_ fault.

"I swear, when we find those two I'm gonna give Oscar a smack over his head." The man smiled, no hint of his past dismay. "Then I'm gonna laugh at him for bein' caught by some old man."

Daryl glowered. Why was this man so at ease knowing his friend was out there, probably dead or worse?

" _If_ we find them."

Axel frowned at the hunter's dismissive attitude.

"Of course we're gonna find 'em. Those two are tough as nails. Throw anythin' at them and they'll still come back on top. You…don't think that?"

He didn't know, to be truthful. He was afraid of having hope. He once had for Sophia and even spread it to her mother even though he could see it had been slowly killing her. He didn't give up, though, not even when everyone else wrote her off as dead. He had been the one man a hundred percent sure that Sophia was alive and that he would bring her back, and what did his thinking accomplish?

A distraught mother. A hopelessness and shame that had threatened to crush him. The days after Sophia walked out of that barn as one of them had been coiled in mist. There had been no direction to his actions. He hadn't wanted to face anyone, the reason why he moved away from the camp.

—He had blamed himself.

How could he look Carol in the eye after everything? After giving her hope only for it to be thoroughly crushed? She had to watch as her own daughter had been put down like a dog and the only thing he had been able to do was hold her back and whisper words of comfort that fell on deaf ears.

He was afraid because at any moment he could find Samara dead or worse—a walking corpse. He didn't know what he would do is he found her dead…

"…I do."

He couldn't fool Axel, though. He couldn't have fooled a five year old with that sloppy answer.

"Well, say it like you mean it. We're gonna see them again." The former inmate gave his shoulder an encouraging squeeze. "Have some faith."

 _Faith…_

Daryl had lost that a long time ago.

* * *

The rusty cell door opened.

Samara woke with a start. She was in the same place as when she first entered this tiny oppressing room, hugging herself in a fetal position. The hours were lost to her as she had no means to see if it were even daylight outside. Quickly scurrying to her feet, Samara steeled herself for who was about to enter. She wasn't going to appear weak in front of these wolves.

A tall, white man in his late forties walked in. Despite his pleasant features, Samara could see the gravity that swam in his eyes and knew this man was anything but what he seemed. Alongside him was another man that sported almost the exact countenance. He had dark skin, a sturdy body and an unreadable, iron-clad expression. There was no hidden meaning to his indifferent gaze. What his eyes portrayed was exactly what he felt, no more and no less.

"Stay outside, Shumpert. I'll talk with her alone."

 _Shumpert. Martinez. Governor._

The man waited until his underling left the cell, but Shumpert didn't close the door. It was in case Samara tried anything as the man kept her in his peripheral, hands on his rifle.

"My name's the Governor. I run this town." This Governor spoke in a placating manner, but Samara could hear the hint of danger just underneath the thin sheen of ice. "What's your name? Dani had none to offer."

She eyed the man keenly. He had already spoken to Dani then, so that meant he probably knew about her and the circumstances on how she ended up with them.

"Samara."

"Samara…" He tested the name and Samara hated the way it effortlessly rolled off his tongue. "I talked to Dani and he said he ambushed you and your group outside Columbus. He said that initially there were four of you, but from what Dr. Stevens told me you're not a vagabond. Beside the wounds and bruises, you're healthy and fit, so it leads me to believe that there are more of you than just four…" His eyes narrowed minutely. "Maybe even have a place to hide in."

A chill rolled down her spine. The way he spoke made her feel threatened. If there was one thing Samara was sure of, it was that she never wanted this man anywhere near the others.

"You're wrong. It was just us. Once upon a time, there were more, but not anymore."

"Really? Do tell."

Samara licked her dry lips, her mind working furiously on a story.

"There used to be ten of us. We survived winter on a farm, but a month ago we were forced off it by walkers. Five of us were killed in the attack and one just disappeared one night. She…wasn't right in the head. Not since her daughter died in the attack." Mixing fantasy with a dose of truth had always been a better alternative to just straight up lying. "She probably committed suicide somewhere, alone and forgotten. After that, we just drove around for a few weeks in hopes that we'll find a new home, but it was in vain. We were on limited rations by the time we reached Columbus. Our destination had been Arizona, but…" She gave the Governor a piercing look. "Plans change."

"So they did." The man's expression didn't change from its somber outlook. "Why Arizona?"

"I'm from there."

"I see." A shrewdness passed over his gaze, assessing her intently. "The man that was hanged, I understand that he meant somethin' to you."

Samara felt her heart do a double take as her toes curled inside her boots, but she had too much self-control to let her dismay slip out. Outwardly, she was the same cold fish, only shrugging unsympathetically.

"We weren't that close. We just shared warmth every now and then."

He was silent for a moment, his eyes never changing from their diamond sharpness.

"Not very sentimental, are you?"

She smirked dully. "Never been accused of that before."

The Native felt invaded. The man's gaze was like an X-ray, searching deep into her bones and analyzing through every single thread of muscle and piece of organ to get to her very soul. Whatever he wished would come to light, Samara wouldn't let it happen. She held onto her secrets like a Gremlin. If anything swam to the surface, those people she cared about would almost certainly meet a grizzly end.

—She wasn't about to give this man the satisfaction.

"Well, I'm sorry to say, but luck's not on your side." The man tsked as he gave up on his perusal, for now at least. She didn't doubt that the man would poke and prod her for more information when she was more vulnerable to suggestion. That's what she would do. "The rest of your days will be spent here in my town. At least be happy that you won't share a fate similar to that woman's, dyin' alone and forgotten."

Samara snorted at his good will. "And how is this any better? I'm the slave sent to the pits for the mob's entertainment. I'm no better than a piece of meat thrown to the lions. At least that woman had a say on how she died."

"We don't all get to live or die in the manner we fantasy's." The man scoffed at her naivete. "Most of us want to believe that if we have to die, we die in a blaze of glory. Then we'll never be forgotten and we'll live on through stories passed down by survivors until we become legends."

"Like the heroes of old, huh? I don't really see myself as some Geronimo, to be truthful."

"And I'm no General Custer."

"Custer was a coward and piece of shit." Venom dripped off her tongue. Samara had never been the most Native-American of her people, but there were certain things even she saw eye to eye. "Understandable why you wouldn't want to be associated with that name."

The Governor smiled for the first time. Nothing ostentatious, just a small smirk like they were sharing a private joke. A very _dark_ one.

"Tell me, Samara…What did Dani tell you you'll be doing here?"

"Fighting to death for the shits and giggles." Samara didn't even sugar-coat it.

"Really?" The smile turned satirical. "A corpse is no good to me. I don't need you dead in the arena. And…to be truthful, I don't even want you to fight."

Samara's features flat-lined.

 _What?_

"I've read Stevens' report. You're already too injured to effectively fight and as you most likely heard this morning, my people don't like seein' women get beaten to a pulp." There was real disgust on his face, as if the notion itself insulted him. "You along with Sadie, who is also handicapped because of her injured arm, are _excused_."

 _Unbelievable._

 _This is priceless._

"So then…" Samara's eyes widened madly in a brief loss of self-control. "Why am I still here? If I'm not going to fight, why the fuck am I still in chains?! Let me go!"

"I can't do that." He answered as coolly as ever.

"I haven't seen anything!" Was he afraid she would return here in some mad quest for retaliation? This man and his people had done nothing to her so she had no reason to ever seek vengeance. True, on his orders she had been captured, but so could anybody else had. She hadn't been singled out. "I've been blindfolded the entire time and trust me I have no intention of ever coming back here. Actually, I want to get as far away from here as possible. Take me to the woods and leave me there. I don't need any weapons or provisions, I can find them on my own. Just…You already have your fighters, I'm not needed. I'll just deplete resources."

"True. You are right now a parasite." His eyes then sharpened, an almost malevolent shadow taking over his countenance. "So then, what's stoppin' me from puttin' a bullet through your skull?"

 _Oh._

He had been thinking what to do with her. In the most morbid and practical way possible.

"Waste of ammunition?" Her small bout of misplaced wit soon withered away at the man's darkening expression. "I don't want to die."

"Who does, but that's not up to us, is it?"

Samara had to think quickly. Right now, the executioner's axe was hovering right over her neck, just waiting for the signal to swing and end her life. She needed to make this man understand that she was of better use alive than dead.

 _If you can't beat them, join them._

"I'm not dead weight despite my injuries." Samara breathed heavily, her hands clammy from the dread in her gut. "I didn't survive this world on running and hiding. I did it by killing my way through, man or walker."

"Walker…Is that what you call 'em?" He mused over the name given to the undead, before returning to their current business. "So did other people survive just like you, leavin' behind a trail of blood. For example, Dani and his group. And yet, that reason doesn't sway me."

"What do you want then?" Samara was desperate at this moment. She could sell her prowess, her fighting skill, but in her current condition, this man wouldn't even bat an eyelash. She was a broken doll in his eyes. "What can I give you that will keep me alive?"

"For starters, tell me where the rest of your people are."

"I told you there are none!" Samara spat, reining in her frantic temper.

"Then why don't I believe you? I know your hidin' somethin'. You're the type to never show your cards until it's the right moment." He smirked as if enjoying a secret only the two of them shared. "You think I don't realize what you did back there? After dealin' with Eli, I had time to think on the events that transpired and I saw your little scheme. Proclaimin' loudly what Micah did to your friend. Hopin' that my already irate temperament will lead them to your desired result. And it did. You got what you wanted—Dani and the others in the same boat as you."

Samara bit her lip. He's more smarter than she gave him credit. No wonder he didn't believe her.

"That may be so, but I wasn't lying. It was just me and the other three left. The others died." He needed to believe her, or at least enough not to pry further because she wasn't about to give up the prison's location. Not even under torture if it came to that. "I had to watch while they got devoured, unable to do anything but run. I _hated_ myself for leaving them behind, but there was nothing that could have been done. They were already too far gone."

The man kept staring on, impenetrable as a wall.

" _That_ is the truth. I can't change that."

"Then what good are you?"

The Governor suddenly made his way towards her, murder in his gaze. Samara flattened herself against the wall at the sight of the knife in his hand, sweat pouring down her skin. She had no escape, nowhere to run.

 _Oh Gods_.

The cool blade touched her throat and Samara felt her skin prickle. The Reaper was back and he was calling her name.

What could she placate him with? Because this is what he was asking for—tit for tat. Samara wouldn't change her story. She had no weapons or supplies to give, so what did that leave her with?

 _Weapons…_

Her eyes widened.

"Wait! Wait!" Her voice took on a higher note and Samara almost recoiled at her weakness. She was pleading and scurrying around like a mouse caught by a cat. _Disgusting_.

"What for?"

The blade cut into her skin, bright red blood staining the deadly metal.

"Guns!"

The Governor frowned in confusion.

"I know a place where there are guns, ammunition, vests, fucking grenades! All army goods!"

 _That's right…_ She, Michonne and Andrea had ransacked an army outpost last winter, leaving many weapons behind. There had been too many for them to carry. Walkers had been also scarce in that area so taking them had been relatively easy. Nobody could shun away this sort of find. Guns were the most needed in this new world. The only way to defend yourself and protect what was yours. Samara knew. She herself had done barters of this nature—A gun for a life. He would be a fool to pass It up.

"Where?"

"South. Outside Albany." The words spewed out of her mouth without pause. "Barely any walkers. The place is ripe for the taking."

"Then why didn't you and your group take 'em?"

"Because there were far too many for the four of us to carry."

A tense silence settled. The Governor was like the snake poised to strike, it's venomous eyes violating her entire being. Samara's heart beat wildly against her rib cage and she knew the man could feel it. He may not be pressed against her, but he was close enough to smell her fear coated in desperation.

"I'll take you there, but in exchange you let me live."

Her breathing was raspy and her throat felt clogged. Samara was going to have a heart attack if he didn't release her from this oppressive heaviness.

The blade retracted.

Samara barely held herself as her knees threatened to collapse. Hope returned to her miserable view of the world. She wasn't going to die today.

The man said nothing as he stepped out of her cell. The door closed behind him and, finally, Samara was left to her own company. There was no definitive answer. At any moment, the man could return and slit her throat. She wasn't out of danger yet.

The man was sadistic after all, Samara laughed humorlessly. He just left her with this uncertainty until her hair fell out from stress.

Now, only time will tell her fate.

* * *

 _ **Foot Note:**_ As I progress with the writing, I keep thinking about the dozen ways I could have written this story—how Samara could have been introduced differently, how she could have met the group in a different time in the show, how she could have met Rick differently…all these possibilities that maybe would have changed the flow. When I began writing I didn't think of these, I had the story right in front of me and I didn't deviate from it, but maybe I should have thought better. At one point I even thought of re-writing the entire series in a different way, but considering all the work I sweated into this it's highly unlikely. I'm not saying I dislike what I wrote, quite the opposite, but there's that darned 'what if' that's bugging me.

Guess I'll never know.


	33. A Throw of Dice

Samara sat against the wall, her foot incessantly tapping.

Her mind weighted heavily with thoughts. She wasn't going to fight, that was a fact. On some deeper level she was relieved. Samara had overpowered opponents before, but even she knew that in some of those instances she had had Lady Luck on her side. She still recalled her military hand-to-hand combat and practiced it every now and then to keep herself from going rusty, but that didn't make her a pro-fighter.

Winchester had a solid frame, but he was old so his flexibility was hindered. That would have given her an advantage if she had ended up fighting him, but the twins… She was more apprehensive of them. They were younger than her and accurately as ruthless. They weren't the type to stop beating on someone even if blood and organs gushed out of the victim's mouth. Could she have won against them? Maybe if she had her full strength she might have had a chance, but Samara was doubtful even then. In the end, men were built differently than women. They were the hunters, the gatherers and the protectors. Women were just the baby-making machines. Their muscle mass easily overshadowed hers even with the added experience.

Samara sighed. So what then? What was to become of her? This had been swirling like a whirlpool inside her mind with no end in sight. She hoped to all that was holy that the Governor will take up on her offer. There was nothing else she could barter with. That had been her only card.

Samara let her head fall on her knees.

She was so cold and her whole body hurt. The effects of the painkillers had receded and she was left in a pool of misery. Her tender nose was throbbing in its swollen state. There was probably no difference between her and Shrek at the moment. And her arm…It stung like hell. The bullet might have just grazed her, but it still took out some meat. And to top it all, her back was acting up with a vengeance.

She _desperately_ wanted painkillers. Anything to relieve her of this agony.

 _How the fuck do I always get myself in these situations?_

Her cell door opened and Samara's pupils shrunk to needle points. Terror overshadowed her ache and she crouched into a defensive position, ready to protect herself.

Martinez walked in with a tray of food and Samara's stomach growled in response. She hadn't eaten anything since that morning when they left the prison.

"Eat quickly." He left the tray on the floor. "We're going out."

"Where to?" Samara said as she quickly pulled the tray and stuffed her mouth like a wild animal.

Martinez grimaced at her table manners. "Just eat."

He offered no other words as he guarded the door while Samara filled her stomach. The food, while slightly stale, tasted like heaven on her tongue. She drank the water in small sips, careful of further upsetting her stomach.

Once her belly was full, Samara had been cuffed and blindfolded again.

The clinic had been their next destination. The doctor had said that he would check up on her bandages, but he wasn't there. A young woman in her early twenties with blond hair and blue eyes was by the name of Alice. She was a nurse and so Samara was left in her care. The infection in her wrists was healing up nicely as well as the one in her upper arm, but all of that dwarfed in comparison to the medication she was given. Once again, Samara found relief in that tiny, white pill.

The blindfold came back on and she was led out of the clinic.

—But they didn't return to her cell.

The next time her blindfold came off she was out in the open. Her eyes squinted against the bright, morning sun as she inspected her surroundings. Martinez had taken her to the grounds of some abandoned factory with metal containers strewn around. Activity was all about as several people busied around a line of cars. They were all armed to the teeth, ready for the world outside their little sanctuary.

 _What is going on? Why am I allowed to see this?_

In the distance something caught her eye. There was a small field between the factory buildings, encircled by benches and unlit torches. There were even some concrete blocks inside the field with chains attached.

"Like it?" Samara's guard solidified as she recognized the approaching voice. "That's our little piece of entertainment."

The Governor stopped beside her and Martinez as he looked over the field, holding a long chain in his hands. He seemed pleasant today, no trace of his earlier demons. He was even smiling softly.

Samara wasn't pacified. She knew that underneath that facade lay sharp claws and fanged teeth.

Looking over the field, it then clicked inside her brain.

"This is the arena."

"It's not much, but it works. The field doesn't have to be miles wide, just a bit so runnin' is limited. This way the fightin' is more intense."

Her eyes fell on the chains again. They had leashes attached at the end. For whom she wondered?

"And here I was thinking it was a Colosseum."

Governor gave her a curious glance before smirking. "I'm not that lucky."

This whole situation was making Samara sweat abundantly and it wasn't even hot outside. She was standing between many armed men and the makeshift arena. Had the Governor changed his mind?

"What's happening?" She asked directly, unwilling to remain in doubt. "Why am I out here without a blindfold?"

"You said you were gonna show us the way to the army site." He said it as it should be obvious. "I'm givin' you that chance."

"In exchange for my life, right?" She licked the bead of sweat that trickled to the corner of her mouth. "You'll let me live?"

The smile fell, leaving only a somber straight line. "I can't let you go."

"I'm not talking about letting me go. I'm talking about _living_."

His eyes narrowed astutely. " _If_ those weapons are still there then I'll revise your stay here."

With that, the man gave his soldiers a signal before handing over the chain to Martinez. Samara frowned as the metal was hooked to the link between her cuffs. What, was she a dog now?

Samara was pulled forward by Martinez until she was settled inside one of the cars with two mountain-like men sandwiching her in the backseat.

The blindfold never came. She stared out the window as the cars left the factory area and rolled down the main street. For all intents and purposes, Woodbury looked untouched by the undead plague. People smiled, chatted between themselves and waved at the passing convoy. There were even children running after the cars, squealing in joy.

Samara looked at the scenery with nausea. Those happy faces brought out a twinge of hostility. This town was out of place with the world outside. She wondered if those things ever came inside here, tearing and biting, would these people still be smiling like the virus had never happened?

—Illusions and hat tricks.

This is what Woodbury looked like at the moment. The magician's ultimate party trick.

Why? Why did the Governor wanted her to see his town? Was he trying to say that no matter what she did, she couldn't leave his _happy_ little place?

He was boxing her in.

* * *

"Over there."

The outpost was right ahead, just past a small patch of trees. It wasn't large—four large tents and a smaller one. The area was barricaded by sandbags and large Humvee's and trucks. Vegetation surrounded the outpost, not quite a forest as the trees were too distant apart.

The convoy came to a stop.

Samara was muscled outside and her eyes swept over the area. Just like before, it was deserted with only a few uniformed corpses strewn across the pavement. Time seemed to have washed away the blood, but not the air of death that still permeated the place.

—A graveyard of a smaller scale.

"The tent closest to us is where the weapons are." Samara watched the empty garrison with apprehension. She felt uneasy being back here. "The rest is barracks, medical and logistics. I advise against entering the medical one. Whatever supplies are there, they're contaminated."

That was mild to say. There was blood and guts smeared across the floor, tables and even the ceiling, not to mention the dead bodies, undead or otherwise.

Martinez let out a sharp whistle and all his men readied themselves for what was to come.

But they didn't move.

Martinez let go of Samara's chain and watched her expectantly.

"Well? What are you waiting for?" He nodded towards the garrison. "Go."

The Native frowned, not following his train of thought.

"We don't know if there are any biters out there."

It then clicked.

He wanted _her_ to go in there. Alone.

"I'm the bait." Samara swallowed the excess saliva that accumulated.

"I don't have anything to lose if you die." Martinez shrugged unconcerned by her plight.

Samara's lips thinned into a straight line. Did they bring her out here so she could die?

"I'm handcuffed. I don't have a weapon." She tried to reason.

"That's not my problem."

But Martinez was immovable in his determination.

Samara's lips twitched, wanting to glower at the man.

 _This bastard…_

Samara said nothing as she turned and began walking, the chain dragging along after her. The bright sun contrasted with the bleak image the outpost emanated. The same dread she had experienced the first time overcame her once more. For Michonne and Andrea it had been just another place to loot, but for Samara it was different. It represented another time and place that still gave her nightmares. She had thought that she had put away those times, but every now and then they had a funny way of sneaking out into the light.

Samara kicked the first corpse she came across. She wasn't about to foolishly walk past it, even though she knew most of these were dead _dead_. Right now, Samara was hyper-aware of every sound and every move. There was no other means of defense she had except for her sharp senses. If trouble did happen, she was a fast runner even with her hands bound.

Nothing seemed to move in the outpost. It was quiet.

Samara looked behind her, but the others weren't moving. It wasn't enough.

The Native glared. _Fine then._

Opening her mouth wide, Samara let out a shrilly scream. Birds that had been stationing peacefully flew in a panic at the sudden sharp sound.

"Are you insane?!" She heard Martinez curse.

The echo resounded well into the distance, past the trees and empty fields. Samara cleared her throat and spat as she waited out the aftermath.

Groan.

 _There you are._

Several walkers dragged themselves out of the surrounding forest and Samara wasted no time as she turned back. The Woodbury soldiers shouted as they ran towards the danger, their guns aiming. It didn't take long for the undead to be put down by a shower of bullets and silence reigned once again with only the occasional cackle of a disgruntled crow.

"Clear." Samara said derisively once Martinez stepped into her range and picked up the chain.

The man outwardly ignored her quip, but the shove forward was more rough than intended.

Samara was given clear instruction to not move from the truck she was leaning on and that was where she spent the reminder of the time needed for the Woodbury men to gather everything of value. She didn't know how many hours passed, but judging from the sun's position it was already past noon. Samara had time to think as her eyes took in the activity around her.

She could try running. The man holding her chain was big-boned, but he didn't look to be the fit type. She could outrun him without a sweat. The problem was that she couldn't outrun his bullets nor could she escape the tight grip her had on the chain, not to mention survive reaching the prison with tied hands.

—Whichever way she looked, she was fucked.

For now she was stuck with these scavengers, to await an uncertain fate. What will the Governor do? Will he keep to her proposal or will he just kill her after getting what he wanted? It would be the most practical choice. One less mouth to feed, especially one he had no knowledge of.

Samara sighed deeply. Ever since her capture, she had felt a constant dread hanging over her head. She knew the reason and she could feel it building up inside her like an active volcano, ready to spew lava at any moment.

It was going to happen. It was inevitable.

Have they found them? Maggie and—Samara shut her eyes tightly as her heart did a double take. Had Rick and the others went in search for their missing people? Did they come across the gruesome sight hanging from the ceiling or the one locked in the room mangled beyond recognition?

—Were they looking for her or Oscar?

Samara's hands clenched into fists as she pushed back the sizzling spark of hysteria.

 _I shouldn't be here._

"Thinking of running?"

Cold olive eyes appraised her captor. Martinez was watching her with a knowing look, as if he had insight into her churning thoughts.

"The odds are not in my favor." She said candidly.

"You'd be an idiot to try. You'd never make it."

"So it seems." Samara sighed for the tenth time. Her eyes roamed over the men as they moved guns and other goods to the cars. It seemed that the outpost had been left untouched since her expedition. Samara was relieved for this small mercy as she had predicted a fifty-fifty chance that the weapons were still there.

Her gamble paid off in the end.

Samara's attention returned back to Martinez who was openly examining her from head to toe. Her hackles rose as she instantly recognized the spark of interest swimming in his deep, russet eyes. She'd seen that look on many men before.

"What is _he_ going to do with me?" She interrupted his unwelcome perusal. She was already degraded enough with being paraded around like a dog. She didn't need him checking what's underneath her tail.

Martinez shrugged, indifferent as ever. "Beats me. I'm not privy to his thoughts. But, you want my two cents? He should have killed you. No offense."

"None taken." She deadpanned.

"Well that, or give you some job to do. Like feed the geeks or clean the blood and gunk off the arena ground."

"I'm not a janitor." Samara spat insulted. "Clean your own shit."

The man scoffed and whispered to himself. _"Conceited bitch."_

" _Fuck you, asshole."_

His eyes widened, but his surprise was cut short by one of his subordinates who jogged up to him.

"Martinez, we got everythin'."

"Finally. Let's get the fuck out of here." Martinez snatched the chain out the big man's hands and pulled harshly, making Samara stumble. He did all this without ever changing the boredom in his expression. "Come on, Princess High-and-Mighty. You got a date with the jury."

Samara followed after him with a scowl on her face. What she wouldn't give to wrap this chain around his throat.

* * *

A communication radio hissed and buzzed.

"Yo, Milton." Martinez talked over the radio. "We're two minutes away from the gate. Tell the lookouts to be ready for us."

Less than ten seconds passed before a man responded.

"Roger that. Did you find anything?"

"Oh yeah."

"Well? What?"

"Man, get off the radio and warn the sentries. You'll see."

The radio went silent and no more was spoken. Samara noted this detail in her mind, of their apparent means of communication. Every little thing of use she saw she made a mental inventory out of. Who knew if she ever needed the information.

Woodbury was the same as when they had left. People were going about with their tasks. Children were playing. Everyone was _happy_.

That nausea once again struck her insides, leaving her sick. She was back in her cage.

The cars drove right back where they first started. In the factory area, the Governor was already there along with his ever present shadow, Shumpert, waiting for them. Martinez was the first to leave the car as he met with the Governor halfway.

It was obvious the Governor was pleased by Martinez's report, but the moment his gaze ventured towards the car she was in, that smile flat-lined.

Samara swallowed thickly as a chill broke over her skin.

 _That's not good._

* * *

Again, her foot tapped unceasingly.

Back in her old cell, Samara watched the door with baited breath. He was going to show up any moment now and pass on judgement, she could feel it in her bones. Samara felt like throwing up. The constant worry was upsetting her already disturbed stomach. That food that had seemed so delicious this morning despite its countenance was threatening to spew out uncontrollably.

What if he decided she wasn't worth the hassle? Samara's teeth clenched audibly. She didn't want to die, not here and not like a rabid dog about to be put down.

She had seen the goods the Woodbury people found. Grenades, flash and smoke bombs, bullet-proof vests, MRE's, a whole lot of guns and only half the amount of ammunition and most of it was for the heavy artillery. Wasn't that enough to secure her life? Wasn't she worth at least that?

 _Fuck! I want cigarettes! Painkillers! Anything to stay calm!_

Samara's breath hitched as she heard footsteps.

The door to her cell opened and in came her executioner, as grave faced as ever. Samara didn't relocate from her place against the wall, she just breathed evenly as her eyes followed his every step. Right now, she was so tense that a blow of air in her direction would snap her like a twig.

The man watched her meticulously, assessing her entire persona. The silence was suffocating in the small, oppressing room. His presence made it even more unbearable for Samara and she had to press her lips tightly so she wouldn't vomit.

"Tell me, Samara." The Governor spoke deceptively soft as he paced slowly, his eyes never leaving her. "What was your occupation before the virus broke out?"

"I was a US Marshal."

He nodded.

 _Make the deal sweater. Show him that you're not deadmeat._ "Before I was a marshal I was an Army pilot. I can fly helicopters and small aircraft's. I'm also a tracker. Finding people is my specialty. I know how to hunt also, although I'm not an expert."

"Can you also jump over sharks?"

The sarcasm was not lost to her and Samara knew what she had sounded like. Like some youngling on her first interview, bragging about her skills. Unfortunately, this was a life and death crisis and pride was not something she could hold onto.

"I'm not lying."

"No, you're not." The man crossed his arms as some of the harshness in his gaze softened to curiosity. "How did someone with your capability get jumped by low-lives like Dani and his brother?"

"Holding a hostage does the trick." _Maggie…_ Samara swallowed that bitter taste and focused on the present. "I can be of use to you."

"You _would_ have been more useful in the arena. I bet you would've won a few fights before dying."

"I can hunt for you." Samara continued as if she hadn't heard him. She wanted him to stay focused on her uses outside the arena. "Go on scavenger hunts."

"Could you find other fighters?"

Samara's words choked in her throat.

"…Yes."

His eyes narrowed as a small knowing smile lit up. "You hesitated."

"Of course I did." Samara grimaced at the implications of such an act. It was _sick_. "You're asking me to supply you with victims. Doesn't matter who they are, if they are good or bad, or what they did in their past life. You just want bodies to fill the graves."

"Very dramatic, but also very true. Do you think I care about Dani and his people?" He scoffed unsympathetically. "They are nothin' to me. Just a means to an end. That's how life works, Samara. You take and you take until there's nothin' left, and then you move on to the next fertile ground."

"And the cycle continues." Samara supplied belligerently, her eyes dripping venom. "I'm well aware of how the world works. I didn't survive for so long by being nice to people. I killed and I lied and I marauded. I did all sorts of nasty shit just to keep myself alive. Do I regret it? Sometimes." She might have closed herself off from some aspects of her humanity, but there were some tragedies that even she felt shame and guilt towards. "But mostly no, because if I did I would have been a corpse a long time ago. The only way I'm ever going to die is by taking a whole lot of people down with me."

"Even the Devil needs company." The man chuckled lowly. "You remind me of one of my soldiers. He's a bastard, but one of my best. He would _like_ you."

"I'm not so sure." _Most people don't._

Silence ruled once again. The man had never ceased in his scrutiny of her. She felt like a pony being examined for its prowess before the auctions could be placed.

"What happened to the others?"

Dani and his crew…She had no idea what happened to them, if they were still alive or if they joined the abyss.

"Who? Dani's group?" His lips contorted slightly as if seeing a bug crawl on a clean floor. "They're still alive for now and they'll get their turn to fight. All except for Sadie, of course."

"Have you also given her the same song and dance?"

"No." His tone was terribly cold. "I already know what to do with her."

Whatever he had in mind, Samara did not want to know. She had never been a fan of disturbing hornet nests.

"You're rather calm about all this." The curiosity was back as he titled his head and watched her through narrowed eyes. "Martinez told me you didn't even try to plead with him. You just marched on like a soldier into a danger zone. Your predecessors were all rather… _disorderly_ in the face of death."

That was probably the mildest word he had to describe them, Samara thought.

"I'm just trying to make do with what I have at hand." Her eyes were as hard as marbles. Sweat pooled on the back of her neck, mingling with her hair. "Despite all the shit that's happened I have to move forward. If you decide to keep me alive then I'm overjoyed, but if I am to die…" A bead of sweat rolled down her back, cooling her skin. "Then do it quickly. A knife or bullet to the head and _don't_ you let me turn. At least have that little mercy."

The Governor smiled. It was sardonic and delighted at the same time, creating a strange sight.

"I'm not gonna kill you."

Samara looked at him wide eyed. She felt like the world just stopped for that one instant. All that heaviness about her lifted and gave her sweet _, sweet_ relief.

—The nausea was finally subsiding.

"True, you have some use."

His smile dropped in an instant. His fingers extended towards her and all that relief evaporated in the matter of a moment, leaving only the fight-or-flight instincts. The knife came to mind and Samara's skin prickled in wariness. She shuddered as those steel-like fingers grabbed her by the jaw. Her cheeks scrapped against her teeth from the bruising pressure.

"But don't think for a moment this means you're free. You're _mine_." His grip tightened to bone crushing force as his eyes shone deadly. There was something _dark_ in his gaze, something that sent a shiver down her spine. And for the life of her she couldn't look away. "I hold the leash to your collar. You do as I say and if you disagree, I _will_ treat you like a misbehavin' dog. Trust me when I say this, there are worse things than death."

As soon as his words died out, his hand retracted. Samara kept her lips tightly sealed so she wouldn't scream in rage. This was the second time this man threatened her life.

"Later you'll be given food. Eat and rest. You'll need your strength for tomorrow mornin' since you'll be startin' your duties alongside Sadie."

After the door closed, Samara pressed her fist against her mouth so her screams wouldn't be heard.

 _Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck YOU!_

She had never been so angry in her life. Whoever this man believed he was, she would never accept it. He put his hands on her. Held a knife to her throat. If she touched the skin on her neck she could feel a scar with crusted blood there. If she had had even a pencil, she would have readily stabbed the man to death.

But at least she was alive. She was going to live to see another day.

Samara _smiled_ despite her dark situation.


	34. Hush

_Urgh._

Samara grimaced as she threw another piece of meat at the walkers. When the Governor had said he would put her to work she hadn't expected this. From the corner of her eyes she could see Martinez a distance away, siting on the building's back door steps, smoking cigarette after cigarette. Boredom was written all over his face and she could tell from here that he wished to be anywhere else but here, wasting his time babysitting her.

Guess he really hit the nail on her task. Either that, or he suggest it.

Groan.

The walkers were wildly agitated. Martinez had told her that they were usually fed every couple of days to keep them in a constant state of frenzy. And it was never enough. Not all of them got to eat which created friction among them, but they never fought. It was clear now that whatever may happen they wouldn't turn on each other.

Samara sighed. This was disgusting work, but at least she was out of her tiny cell. The fresh air did wonders to her aggravated stomach and spine. Most importantly, it provided her with visuals on her location. She could start forming a mental map and search for the loophole that will serve as her escape.

Woodbury wasn't very large from what she had seen. The main street was where most of the population gathered. The front gate had been created from whatever solid object they laid their hands on—trucks, metal, wired fences and tires. There had to be many weak points.

"Enjoying your new job?"

 _Gods, just what I needed._

Samara looked behind her to see the Governor approaching. Martinez was still smoking his cigarette, but now he was on his feet and stood in a more professional pose.

"Yeah, this is just _peachy_." Samara got back to throwing meat and amusing herself with how the walkers played 'tug-of-war' with the piece of flesh. "Out of curiosity, why am I feeding walkers? And where is Sadie? You said she'll be helping me."

"She is." The Governor said calmly. "You're holdin' her."

Samara paused.

 _Eh?_

A familiar buzz rang in her ears as she slowly lowered her eyes towards the bucket in her hand. Nothing could be discerned from the void present in her gaze as she stared unreadable at the fresh meat.

 _This is Sadie. Was._

Blood pooled in the dips of the flesh. Samara could almost hear the meat slosh and decompose from the heat.

 _Ah, the nausea is back._

Taking a deep breath, those bottomless pits moved to the Governor who stood there watching her reactions with an eerie sort of curiosity.

"Are you deliberately doing this? Showing me these ghastly things so you can get a reaction out of me? First the arena, then Martinez sending me defenseless in a possible walker infested zone, and now this?" Her eyebrows rose apathetically. "Do you think I'll faint or throw myself at your feet and beg?"

A slow smirk spread over the man's features. It was grisly and entertained making Samara wonder just how dark a sense of humor he had.

"I admit, at first I did it to amuse myself. I wanted to see what you would do, but you were infuriatingly passive. They didn't phase you in the slightest. It makes me wonder just what have you been through to make you so detached. But now…" The infuriating smirk took a more sadistic aspect. "Now, I'm trying to see just how far I can take it until that apathetic mask of yours cracks."

Samara scoffed, unimpressed. "It takes more than some chunks of woman flesh, I guarantee that."

With no visible disgust, she continued throwing food at the walkers. While inside she felt like throwing up her intestines, she kept her front impenetrable. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of knowing that he had disturbed her.

"I guess this is what would have happened to me if I didn't give you that piece of information about the army garrison."

"You guess correctly." If the man felt any disappointment he hid it well. "Unfortunately, Sadie didn't have anythin' of interest and like I said, I don't keep leeches."

"And you don't waste meat either." Two walkers pulled on a chunk of flesh, growling at each other for sovereignty over the bit of food. "Why are you feeding these things? Wouldn't it be more practical to use them?"

"We are using them for the arena. Call it a motivator."

Guess she understood why they only fed them every now and then. The chains in the arena…They hadn't been intended for humans but for the _motivators_. Cut off any escape with ravenous walkers and the only choice the fighters had was to participate in Woodbury's sickly entertainment.

"That's dangerous."

At any moment during a fight one of the Governor's men could be bitten.

"We've had accidents before." He conceded with her observation. "Doesn't happen often, but it's always a shame when it does."

"There are ways to make them harmless, you know?" These people were insane for using aggressive undead in their games without any measure of safety, and a chain didn't constitute that.

Governor looked at her inquisitively and even Martinez, who seemed to have forgotten about his lit cigarette, did.

"What do you mean?"

Their ignorance was priceless, Samara thought.

"What do I get for telling you?" Her old ticks woke from their slumber.

His eyes thinned reminding Samara of a rising cobra, hissing in hostility. "How about not joining Sadie."

Samara bit the inside of her cheek. _Don't play with fire. Make him content._

If she revealed her knowledge on their putrid neighbors, it might work in her favor. She needed to be out of her cell and away from the watchful eyes of her guard for good, otherwise she would have no chance of ever leaving Woodbury.

"Cut the jaw off and the rest of the teeth. Hack the arms away so they can't grab you and you have docile sheep at your side."

The Governor's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "You've done this before?"

"One of the people in my group that died, she…she was very creative." _Michonne…_ What was she doing now, Samara wondered. Was she worried for her? "She's the one that showed me this."

"And how did the biters react after?"

"They became dormant, in a manner of speaking." Even after all these months she could still vividly picture Terry and Mike, rocking in place with their milky eyes following her everywhere, even haunting her dreams, but most importantly she could remember their disgusting stench sticking to her like a second skin. "They didn't eat, didn't even try to attack anyone. They were like walking statues."

"Why would you even do that?" Martinez asked in slight wonder, his cigarette having long ago having extinguished itself.

"You really don't know, do you?" The corner of her lips upturned in satire. Samara was so used to being around people that had knowledge of such matters that meeting strangers that were still in the dark gave her a peculiar feeling. Like a teacher advising ignorant younglings. "Repellent."

The Governor understood right away, unlike Martinez who caught on slowly. There was a shine in the man's eyes as if he just discovered a whole new continent.

"Camouflage…" The Governor whispered in awe as his gaze turned towards the agitated walkers. "Walk with the biters, they think you're a biter. Low profile." His eyes then returned to Samara, a small smile playing on his lips. "That's smart."

Samara nodded. Michonne, despite being a bit unhinged, was more clever than Samara when it came to improvisation. The Native had a deep sense of respect for the woman in that regard.

The Governor came closer to Samara. Instantaneously, her grip tighted on the handle of the bucket. If she had less control over her impulses, Samara would have swung the bucket at his head.

"What else do you know?"

Samara wasn't the type to just give without receiving something in return, but considering the man before her, it was a heavy gamble. The Governor was someone that liked having complete control, that was obvious from their previous meetings. Opposing him was not a smart move on anyone's part.

—But Samara was adamant in her resolve to the point of irrational.

"Quid pro quo."

The Governor leered.

He said nothing as he calmly walked away. Samara was slightly disappointed. She had expected a more profound reaction, but the man kept on surprising her with each new facet of his being. She had been right in her description of him as a snake. He was tolerant with his prey, striking for the kill only when it was the perfect time. Until then, he coiled around it, suffocating and leaving it no room for escape.

—The most dangerous enemy was a patient one.

As soon as his presence was felt no more, Samara glared at her guard dog.

"I bet you were enjoying this." She shook the Sadie-filled bucket. He must have known what she had been feeding the undead with. Probably got a sadistic kick out of it too.

Martinez shrugged, unperturbed. He simply retook his place on the steps and lit up another cigarette.

* * *

The Governor studied intently the beaded necklace in his hands—turquoise marbles with a multitude of fangs. The necklace had been on this world for some time now judging from the cracked, muted color of the marbles and the yellowing of the teeth.

 _Fascinatin'._

"What do you think this is? Boar? Wolf?"

Governor looked over his shoulder to the man sitting at his kitchen table, contemplating the information he had received just a mere few moments ago.

"Uh…" Milton blinked several times as if coming out of a deep slumber. "I don't know. Probably."

"Huh." The Governor's attention returned back to the necklace as his thumb glided over one of the larger fangs. It was smooth to the touch. "A real Native-American…"

"How did she know all this?" Milton seemed at a loss from the overload of information. He had even left his lunch go cold and the Governor always hated wasting of food, but he understood. He had also been stunned.

"One of her deceased people apparently."

Milton sighed as he interlaced his fingers. "I would've like to talk with that person."

"You can talk to the Native." Milton had a way of complicating matters when it was very simple. "She is _alive_ , after all."

"I think that would be a good idea. Any information regarding the undead is vital to our survival. I mean, the woman just gave us more information in a minute than I could get out of them in months."

"Makes me wonder why I keep lettin' you have your little experiments."

The faired-haired man frowned in dejection.

"I'm jokin'." Beside complicating everything, he was also very touchy for a man. Governor had always attributed it to his introverted nature and lack of social skills. "You're doing good work, Milton."

A knock at the door.

"Come in."

It was Shumpert.

"Governor, the scouting party is back."

He felt it rather than saw it how Milton's disposition changed.

"I think that's my cue to leave."

The man understood his friend's plight. Milton never could get along with _him_.

"Are you comin' tonight?" He asked as the both of them left the apartment and walked down the steps of the house.

"You know I don't go to these things." Milton nodded in farewell before walking in the opposite direction of the main street. The man was most likely going back to his apartment/lab where he will remain for the duration of the day, nose deep in his experiments.

The Governor never understood the man's fascination with the undead. It was unhealthy.

 _Everyone needs a hobby, I guess._

As he walked down the street, the Governor greeted his people with a pleasant smile. He enjoyed the few days like these as they didn't happen very often. Peace and quiet was a coveted state that the Governor wanted above all else. He wanted this town to flourish and become much more than just a few houses surrounded by some trucks and tires.

He wanted a _real_ army, capable of overcoming any obstacle. They could retake the land from the dead and begin anew. The first free city in this post-apocalyptic world and he would be the one pulling the strings.

But sometimes his thoughts took a dark turn. He could vividly envision biters overpowering their defenses and eating every last civilian in this town. He and his soldiers would escape naturally since they were the only ones capable of surviving such a scenario.

His hawkish gaze swept over the people walking the street with not a care in the world, tending to vegetable patches and conversing among themselves. He could hear them as clear as day…Screaming and pleading for help while the biters tore into their flesh. Having to see their loved ones devoured right before their eyes while they just stood helpless, tears running down their cheeks.

It would be fairly easy. Their captive undead could just _inexplicably_ escape their container and run amok this peaceful little town, creating Hell on Earth. These people barely had any idea on how to survive past these walls and sometimes the Governor had no idea why he poured so much sweat and blood to protect them.

Rome wasn't built in day unfortunately and these were the people he needed to populate it. It was all part of a much bigger plan that he had in mind.

None of these thoughts were noticeable to the outside world. To his people, he was just calmly heading out to meet with his soldiers, a small smile playing on his lips. They couldn't see the nefarious thoughts that lay behind that smile.

The convoy consisted of two large SUV's had stopped right inside the town and out of the first car came the man he wanted to see.

"Safe and sound, I hope?"

"Of course, hoss. Wouldn't have it any other way."

Merle grinned as he shook hands with the Governor. His group had been out for five days, way over the time limit of two days. Every time Merle went out the Governor expected his group to always return later than intended. But he had trust that Merle will eventually come back, even though he hadn't always returned with all his men alive. A fact Merle had been made _severely_ aware of.

The man was constantly searching for his brother without result. The Governor understood his plight despite some of the lives lost in the journey. Family was _everything_ in this desolate world. The only anchor that kept them to reality. Lose that and you risked losing a part of yourself.

If there was one thing about Merle he highly respected, was that he was tireless when he set up his mind on a goal. A quality of his personality that mirrored his own, probably why the Governor decided in integrating him among his own people.

"Any problems?"

"None. Everythin' went smoothly." Merle lit up a cigarette as those clear blue eyes closely observed the Governor from head to toe. "You look pleased. Got a squeeze?"

It was amazing how the man always managed to pick up on the subtlest of changes. It was actually _frightening_ to some degree, but generally bothersome since the Governor had to take extra careful steps around him. He despised being an open book to anyone.

"We have new fighters."

"No shit." The man grinned wickedly. "Are they any good?"

"It's Dani's crew."

Merle guffawed loudly.

"I knew those idiots will end up here eventually. Just a matter of time." He hooted in delight, his eyes betraying the hunger for sport. "When do I get my turn? I got some beef to settle with Texas Ranger."

"You'll get your turn, Merle. Don't worry." The Governor grinned in response to the man's dark joy. It was easy to placate someone like Merle. Throw a dog a bone and he will follow you around forever, provided you keep giving him bones every now and then to not lose its interest. "Dani also brought in a fighter, but we can't use her."

The man's joy morphed into a scowl of annoyance. Women were no fun in the arena. They were too shrilly and they cried too much. "Shit, they brought another woman? She geek food already?"

The Governor mulled over it. Having her feed biters was a once in a few days job, she needed something constant. If she was going to remain, he could at least use her for something other than rotting in her cell.

"No, she's gonna be helpin' Milton from now on."

That seemed the perfect opportunity. The woman knew more than she let on and he wanted that information. He knew Milton wouldn't be a threat to her and he was basing on the fact that she would lower her guard around him. The man, while socially inapt, had a way of sedating people.

Merle's eyebrows raised in curiosity.

"Well, today's just gettin' more interestin' by the second. Do tell."

* * *

It was late in the afternoon when Samara was walked by Martinez and the Governor through some back alleys on the periphery of the town. Wherever their destination was, it was secluded. Perhaps distant enough from the people of Woodbury to not hear the screams.

The Governor went through a door and waited for his two companions to enter before closing behind him.

"Milton?"

"I'm here."

The unease Samara felt on the way here heightened upon seeing the room they had entered. It was a large garage transformed into a laboratory of sorts. On the walls were tons of anatomy pictures and notes, old machines were backed against the walls and tubes and glasses filled with different colored liquids sat upon a table. There was a body underneath a sheet on a examination slab while next to it was a mobile tray with an array of surgical instruments. Further down the room there were two desks—one clustered with documents and handwritten notes and the other had several radios complete with a microphone and headset.

It clicked then. This Milton had been the man on the radio. The one Martinez had talked to on the way to Woodbury.

Milton approached them from another room with a towel in hand. Upon seeing him, Samara scoffed internally. He was a man of her height and age with short dark blond hair and pale khaki colored eyes accessorized with a pair of round glasses. He reminded her of those nerd-ish, loner types she sometimes saw on TV. Very polite and mannered that avoided violence at every turn.

—She'd eaten men like him for breakfast before.

"Milton, this is Samara, the biter-whisperer."

 _Cute._

"Hello." He waved awkwardly with a civil smile. "I'd shake your hand if you weren't handcuffed."

Samara looked at him flatly. _Definitely a nerd._

"I'm excited to start our collaboration. I have so many questions that I hope maybe you can shed some light on." He looked around the room before heading towards his messy desk and rifling through the papers there. "I have them written here somewhere."

The man barely interested Samara. The objects around the room were of much more importance. What was he studying? The walkers?

Her eyes landed on the covered body. From what she could tell the head was missing along with the arms. The only thing that came to mind was—

"Frankenstein…"

Governor chuckled underneath his breath. "Not exactly. I told Milton what you said and we've already tested the information out." His eyes landed on the body of the biter. "It was very strange seein' it. In a good way, though."

"Yes!" Milton came over with his papers. "I mean, how did this friend of yours even come up with this idea?"

"She just figured since walkers don't attack each other she might just try it out." Samara shrugged. Exactly how such a bizarre idea entered Michonne's mind at that time was still a mystery. "More than that I don't know. All I know is—you cover yourself in their scent, they don't attack."

"How?"

Samara narrowed her eyes at his giddiness for information. "Rub walker blood on yourself. Either that or just wear their chopped off body parts. Organs are the best, in my opinion. They're more putrid."

"Oh…" His fervent curiosity dropped a few degrees in face of such mental images.

"You paint a _vivid_ picture." Governor smiled as he watched Milton clear his throat and neatly arrange his papers. The woman's words had managed to disturb him to some extent.

"You asked, I answered. I'm not going to sugarcoat it."

Governor nodded, pleased with her cooperation. He had thought she would be stubborn, but she was strangely compliant.

"Tell me, Samara." The Governor crossed his arms as he leaned against the examination table. "How long did you keep biters in that condition?"

"A few months. We kept them chained around the farm as repellent. This way if walkers ever stumbled upon it, they wouldn't sense anything of interest."

"And yet you were still driven out by them."

"One of my people used a shotgun several times. The sound attracted a hoard."

The Governor nodded in understanding. "How do you think hoards happen? They just all go in the same direction until they pile up to a hundred?"

"More or less. One walker walks in one direction. On the way it meets another, then another and another until it forms a group. In the end, I don't think it matters which way they're going, just that they're…"

"Together. In a pack, so to say." Milton intervened, once again excited about their talk of the undead. "Do you think they share a pack mentality? Like wolves, I mean."

"They're not intelligent. They're stupid as dirt."

"But what about instinct? They have something they guide themselves by. Sound is one, smell another from what we recently learned. Do you think the biters remember anything? The person they once were?"

"As in guiding themselves by memory?" Samara frowned at the absurd thought. "Impossible."

"Milton believes there might be a trace of the people they were, still trapped inside." Governor explained, but even he was skeptical of this theory.

"Like an echo." Milton took a step closer, his eyes fixated on her. "Surely, it must have crossed your mind."

"It has…" She begrudgingly conceded. In the beginning, Samara had mulled over many theories and ideas related to the virus, but all of them had such dark implications that she abandoned them in the process. "But I don't like thinking about it. It's bad enough we have the undead walking around, thinking that the person they once were is still in there just waiting for the horror to end, unable to do anything about their actions is _too_ much. So no." She glared viciously at the overexcited man. "I _don't_ want to think about it."

Milton cleared his throat and backed away, avoiding the woman's gaze. He looked like a beaten dog in her eyes.

"Samara…" The Governor caught the woman's attention, but he missed the fraction of a grimace that passed her lips at the sound of her name coming out of his mouth. "You said the biters around the farm had been there for months. Didn't they starve?"

"I guess on some level they did, but it didn't stop them from functioning. During winter, I've seen the way walkers hibernated, but it didn't make them statues. It was just harder for them to move without a stimulus."

"Sound, you mean."

"Yeah. It was like I wasn't even there." That might have been because she had lived with Terry and Mike for so many months that their stench permeated into her skin. The walkers might have just believed she was one of them, hence their passivity.

Governor sighed as he rubbed the sudden weariness away from his face.

"Feels like we're tryin' to impose logic on a chaos."

"That's not a bad thing, per say." Milton interjected.

"Well, what does it buy us? More questions, more theories and no answers."

"That's why Samara is here." Milton gave the woman a determined smile, one that showed his enthusiasm for their future collaboration. "So we can work through these theories and questions."

Samara couldn't say she shared the man's enthusiasm, but at least she got to spend more time outside her cell. This also provided her with the opportunity to steal a scalpel or some other sharp instrument. Martinez might be watching her, but he couldn't do it at all times. As for Milton…

—He was inconsequential.

* * *

Samara stared out of focus at the ceiling. There was mold in the corner of her room and there were cracks littered everywhere.

She had not two hours ago been returned to her quarters. Milton had said something about a curfew being forced after sunset to avoid any accidents from happening. In the morning, she will return to Milton's and continue in her duty of assisting him.

It hadn't been as grueling as she had initially thought. Boring, actually. Milton had grilled her thoroughly about walkers in general to the point that she almost fell asleep. She hadn't told him everything, though—the fact that you could survive walker bites was something she held onto until the proper time.

Samara's ears perked. Someone was walking the corridor of the jail area. As soon as those heavy boots stopped just at her door, Samara rose to her feet.

The lock clicked and light illuminated her cell. The man called Shumpert, she believed, entered as grave faced as ever. This was an odd sight considering he had never been here before. Where was Martinez?

It didn't take long for Samara to spot the pair of handcuffs.

"Turn around."

"Does Milton need me again?"

This was odd. She usually wasn't taken out of her cell at night, just left to the darkness to slowly go insane. What was happening?

"Turn. Around."

Against every fiber of her being she listened to the man and hissed as the cuffs were tightened on her still tender wrists. Shumpert gripped her arm and maneuvered her outside.

"Where are you taking me?"

The man, like his expression, was immovable. Samara was sure that even if she threw a thousand questions at him he would still be as tight-lipped as he was now.

The trek through the back alleys was familiar. This was the same path Martinez had taken her through when she had been taken outside Woodbury to the army garrison.

—The arena was in that direction.

Samara put on the brakes, but it was of no use. Shumpert just forced her to walk. She was sure that he would dragg her all the way there if she became stubborn.

The Native frowned in confusion as she heard cheers and jeers in the distance. As they rounded up the corner, Samara was greeted with the sight of the arena in full function. People dominated the pews and some were even scattered around, unwilling to miss the fight. And lo and behold, in the middle of the arena stood the man that had orchestrated her stay here.

Had he changed his mind?

Whatever he had said to his people they seemed to approve as the pews exploded in joy.

With her heart in her throat, Samara waited for Shumpert to guide her in the arena, but instead he walked her by the back of the pews. They stopped somewhere in the shadows where the people of Woodbury wouldn't look unless their attention was attracted towards it.

Samara looked over the crowd with trepidation. This is insane. These people were _insane_. They were cheering to see people beat themselves to a pulp. She could practically feel their frenzied anticipation on her tongue. How could that be normal human behavior?

 _Normal_ …There was nothing normal about this town. That happy facade was just that, a mask. Underneath it all lay a much more sinister beast.

"Friends, family…Enjoy the fight and have a great time!"

The crowd erupted in celebration. If Woodbury was a beast then the Governor was the maestro, waving his baton for the performers to follow.

She wondered if the old saying was true—cut the head and the body will fall in dissaray.

The man's eyes found her with ease and much to her irascibility, he joined her side in the shadows. Something felt different, though. There was a peculiar shine to his eyes, either from a change within or from the light of the torches.

But all in all, he was _happy_.

"Why am I here?"

Samara didn't understand why she had been invited, as a spectator no less.

"Isn't it obvious? So you can see the show." There was a sense of cruelty behind his deceptively easy smile. "After all, this is what your initial purpose was."

 _Bastard._

So, that was it. He wanted to rub her face in it.

Samara wretched her gaze from him. If she had to stare at him right now she might do something _incredibly_ stupid. Her eyes swept over the arena instead. The Woodbury fighter was there, psyching himself up for what was about to come. Dani's crew wasn't there yet, but the walkers were. As she had thought, the chains and leashes had been intended for them, but she didn't expect to find them jawless and armless.

"Nice, right? You were the inspiration for their transformation."

Samara shivered. He had been watching her as she observed his people. She hadn't even felt it.

The crowd's volume heightened at the sight of Dani. The man was brought through the standing crowd, but something was amiss. The people were shouting angrily and throwing food and small objects at him.

"What did you tell your people?" She watched as Dani took the brunt of the attack with a straight face. "They're too riled up."

"Just the truth." The Governor looked over his people with something akin to fascination. "Despite my good graces, Dani and his people got greedy and tried to steal from us. Then they killed Eli in general wicked disposition."

"And while you are the hero that avenges Eli's death…" Samara appraised him shrewdly. "And that was enough for them? I've never seen people so ready to see others die despite what happened."

"They are simple people with simple needs."

 _In other words the're ignorant people who don't know any better._

"Thinking of building your own Rome?" She asked sarcastically. This arena reminded her of a Colosseum and him, the dictator looking down over the masses.

His eyes shone ominously in flame of the torches. "If this is what they want, who am I not to give it to them?"

"No offense, but your people are fucked up in the head if this is the only way they can get off."

His head tilted curiously while a small, indulgent smile. "Is that what you think they're doing?"

"Either that or they just found their replacement for TV."

The Governor chuckled lowly. The man reminded Samara of a predator, the way his eyes swept over the crowd, studying each and every one of the faces present. He was searching for something—an emotion, a gesture, anything to appease the animal inside him.

"Tell me, Samara." That hunger ever more present in his dark blue eyes. "Do you know what happens to people when they feel trapped?"

Samara's brows rose cynically. _Is that a trick question?_

"They get anxious. They start thinking about escaping." They held each other's gaze firmly—the Governor was watching her expectantly while Samara glowered perceptively. "But if they can't, then they get angry. Start hating those that trapped them there in the first place. They start thinking about _murder_."

Samara swore, the many smiles the man could produce could make an adult cry.

The fight began, but neither Samara nor the Governor paid any attention to it. They were enraptured in their own tiny bubble of space and words.

The man watched her with something akin to appreciation. "For the people here that's what Woodbury is, a cage. We're nothin' but animals in a zoo and outside our sanctuary are hunters, waitin' for their prey to come out of their hidin' place. Inevitability…" The licked his lips, reminding Samara of a starved wolf. "That's always on their mind and because of that they fear. They need somethin' to get rid of those dark thoughts, the smell of death that surrounds them at every minute of the day and _this_ is the answer." He nodded towards the punching and kicking combatants, his eyes never leaving her. "It gives them a measure of power, of control. This is why I began these fights. When they see our soldiers fightin' and winin' each time, it gives them hope."

Samara nodded in understanding. It was barbaric, but effective.

"And when they see justice dealt in a manner benefiting the crime, they feel vindicated. No judge or jury. Those were sometimes impediments in the old world, especially when it wasn't dealt equally. A murderer could walk free if he had enough influence and money while some other served a life-sentence for petty theft simply because he was a nobody."

She'd seen it happen before, oh so many times. At that time, she hadn't given it much thought than fleeting pity. The people getting fucked over hadn't been her problem. Detachment had always been the best solution to keeping herself intact.

"Exactly!" The man said animatedly. "As I said, people are simple. They see righteousness dealt, they are placated."

"No different from the old roman mobs." Samara's lips pursed as soon as the sentence ended. She hadn't intended to let that slip out.

But the Governor wasn't insulted, he actually seemed pleased by her observation.

"These distractions relieves them of their stress, of their daily burdens. It pacifies them from the lingerin' presence of death. It makes them believe we have a chance at life, even imprisoned as we are behind these walls." Blood spilled as Dani hit the Woodbury man hard enough in the mouth, spitting a tooth. The crowd booed in displeasure. "Without this, we would have had a riot a long time ago. Humans can only take so much before they break."

This man understood the human condition intimately. Very few people had the mind to think of these notions. They were ugly and callous and broke away the fantasy they had that people were nice and decent at their core, but they were _real_. This, before them, was humanity at its _finest_. Chanting and growling for blood and death while some poor sod suffered for their viewing pleasure.

Samara had always known that people were savages. She held no illusion than when push came to shove they wouldn't react in violence. It was just disheartening seeing it happen right before her eyes.

"I always wondered how it feels being there in that situation." The Governor mused as his soldier headlocked Dani and began punching him in the stomach. The exhaustion was beginning to show in both fighters and he wondered who the first one would be to fall. "Knowin' that any moment could be your last. Havin' to fight just for another day of breathin'. Must be hell for the victor to have to live with the choices he made." His eyes returned to the Native, eager to hear her opinion. "Or do you think they have enough honor in them to sacrifice their lives so their loved ones can live?"

"Honor…" Samara spat the word with repugnance. "There's no honor when you fight for your life. Respect, familiarity, kindness—all that shit flies out the window the moment a weapon is put into your hands. There's only you and the obstacle you have to walk over."

The Governor seemed content with her answer as he focused back on the fight. Samara watched with little interst as Dani caught the soldier by the ears and crashed his face into his knee. There was blood on the arena floor and the bright ruby red of the life liquid mesmerized Samara.

"Have you ever held death matches?"

How much blood had the dirty pavement collected, nourishing the earth? So many lives must have been extinguished here, like a weak candle flame snuffed out when it wasn't of use anymore.

"No. They're not practical."

"So you've never pit family against each other?"

A flash of recognition passed over the man's dark blue yes. He knew where her thoughts lay—Dani and Micah. That sharp grin was back, making it easy for her to imagine the sharp teeth that hid behind those lips. "Now, that would just be _cruel_."

Samara scoffed. Playing the innocent sheep was unbecoming. This man would hardly bat an eyelash at such a morbid spectacle. He would probably relish in it.

She wanted to see them suffer. Those twins…they did _it_. They held the rope in their hands and they pulled with all their might until muscles tore and bones fractured.

—She could still see _him_ in her nightmares, just swinging perversely with his neck broken. His eyes watched her with livid blame and she could see the words he couldn't speak anymore painted across his glassy retinas.

 _You did this._

Samara exhaled harshly. She needed to stop. She couldn't keep thinking about him at such inappropriate times. She was not allowed to break down.

"H—How long will these fights take?" Samara swallowed thickly. There were distractions all over the place, she needed to focus on them and not on her sick mind. "Or better yet, I should be asking how long till your people get bored."

"I'd give it a few weeks or less." If the Governor had sensed her brief moment of abnormality, he showed no indication of it. "After that, Dani and the others will die in this very field."

"An unfortunate _accident_?"

Governor smirked like the devil he was.

As of now, Dani had the upper-hand. He was beating on the Woodbury soldier with a vengeance. All that anger he had been carrying around for the last couple of days was now pouring out on this patch of dirt.

As she watched the Governor's man retaliate with a punch to the stomach, Samara became enthralled with the way the tables had turned. Blood and spit flew as Dani's cheek was assaulted by a bruising knuckle. He lost balance and tripped right next to a chained walker, only to crawl away in instinct, even though knowing it was harmless. The public roared in laughter at his clumsy escape, enraging the cornered man. He spat on the gritty floor and raised his arms in defense, but his eyes glowed like Hell's flames. There was only pure hatred pouring out of him—for his opponent, for the crowd, for himself for getting in this situation.

She could have been in his place. Easily, she could have been the one bleeding and fighting for the entertainment of others.

A thought slowly trickled into her brain. It tangled itself around her mind like a tricky vine, sinking its thorns and making her bleed.

It was mesmerizing. It was _mad_. It was against all reason.

—One that will let her have her vengeance no matter what.

"Can I ask you for a favor?"

Her heart thudded against her chest. Her hands shook uncontrollably from the excitement and she could feel damp forming on her skin.

The Governor indicated that he was listening despite his eyes following the rigorous battle. "If it's somethin' along the lines if you give me enough information I will let you go, I'll have to disappoint you. You're not the first person to propose that sort of deal and my answer still hasn't changed and won't in the near future."

"I just want to fight that idiot, Micah." Her cuffed hands balled into fists as she could already taste the adrenaline.

He frowned in thought. "Why?"

"Because I have a score to settle."

His narrowed eyes lightened upon understanding.

"Your man. I see…" He smirked suspiciously. "Not so apathetic, after all."

Samara glowered softly. "That man took something from me. He _has_ to pay."

The brothers along with their two accomplishes had brought too much grief to her. These little mock fights were not an enough punishment in her eyes. Nothing short of utter destruction will ever make her content and if she had to do it with her own hands then so be it.

"Not with his life, however." But the Governor was firm in not letting her have her way. "I can see murder in your eyes and I won't allow it."

Samara scoffed. For someone sick enough to hold human fights to berate her for wanting to kill said prisoner was a laugh. He just didn't want her to think with her own head.

Samara was about to rebuke him, but she was saved from her rash temper by a new voice.

"Sir, we got a—"

The man stopped dead in his tracks.

Sensing a disturbance, Samara equally froze in stupefaction when confronted with the interrupting man.

—Short brown hair. Eyes of a familiar shade of blue. Square jaw. Metal prosthetic instead of a hand.

Samara's mouth fell open in horror.

It was _him_.

It was—

"Ah, Merle. You're late. Fight's already started. This is Samara, the one brought here by Dani."

Samara felt her stomach plummet.

Why? How is this possible? How is Daryl's brother alive and standing right behind her? She had left him for dead. He was _supposed_ to be rotting in a overturned car in the middle of the road and yet, he was here, healthy and fit.

 _Wait…_

A memory came to mind. Of a large group attacking a military convoy and killing every single soldier in sight with no exception. The first man that stepped out of that car—

Samara's pupils dilated in dismay.

It had been the Governor. He had been the one holding the white flag under pretense of peace, all the while having only murder and theft on his mind.

It all fell in place right now—Merle was from Woodbury. Not the prison, not some unknown hiding hole in the Georgia countryside, but _here_ , in this macabre little town led by an even more ghoulish man.

Fit like a glove doesn't even do it justice.

Her eyes switched to the man beside her, now more poisonous than ever as memories of her actions in Geneva flashed by—She had maimed and killed several of his men. This man was among those types of people that hated losing anything, even a small object, to others. She just needed to turn her head towards the sounds of knuckle hitting flesh to witness the man's patience with offenders.

This was all too much for Samara. It felt like the pyramid of cards finally lost its balance and toppled over.

It was over. Her plans of escape, of reuniting with her people had all come crashing to a halt with the appearance of Merle Dixon.

 _I'm fucked._

"Is somethin' the matter?"

The Governor had not been oblivious to the sudden tension as he looked curiously between his prisoner and his right-hand man.

"I…" Merle couldn't take his eyes off Samara. He, like her, had been struck blindly by this inexplicable reappearance. How could anyone have foreseen such an outcome?

He blinked once and as if magic, his surprise and awe dissipated within an instant. Normalcy returned to their tiny bubble of unscrupulous memories and crippling anxieties.

"I just didn't expect her to be a squaw, that's all." He shrugged with his usual crooked smirk.

"Merle."

That was a warning.

The man raised his hands in apology, but that smirk never left him.

Samara was nowhere near normal. On the outside, she resumed her usual stone faced facade as a undisturbed ocean, but on the inside…She was a mess. Her bowls were acting up again and that heaviness crashed down over her shoulders. She was back in that area of uncertainty where her life hanged in the balance.

"Samara, this is Merle. He's one of my best soldiers." His attention then returned to the man in question. "Was there somethin' you wanted to tell me?"

"It can wait until after." His sharp eyes bored into Samara. "It ain't urgent."

"Well then, enjoy the fight."

The man turned back towards the spectacle, not before throwing one last veiled glance to his soldier and prisoner.

Samara's muscles locked tightly as Merle took a deliberate slow step towards her. If she had fur, she was sure all of it would be raised making her resemble a porcupine. He was a predator coming for the kill and Samara, right now in her metal bonds, was the prey.

She couldn't run. She couldn't fight.

She was helpless as Merle closed up on her.

A mere few inches separated them as Merle all but boxed her in with his looming presence. His warm breath washed over her face and Samara couldn't do anything but look into those _painfully_ familiar blue eyes.

The Governor was oblivious to the transactions right behind him, but she knew Merle could sense her fear and dread. Her chest was rising too rapidly for her tastes and the way the _redneck_ took a peak only for his grin to grow even wider had her eyes twitch in anger.

 _Asshole._

But as his eyes moved towards the Governor his grin dropped. His face settled into a straight line and Samara could have sworn she saw a flash of terror.

Slowly, his hand settled on her upper arm and Samara shuddered in disgust. She did not want his dirty, rough hands on her. But the man showed peaceful intent as he simply turned her around so she can watch the fight. Samara wouldn't let her eyes wander too far from Merle. She didn't trust him not even if her life depended on it.

Sweat pooled at her hairline and she could feel a few drops roll down her face into her shirt.

The metal-hand man simply watched her with heavy eyes, while something likened to a storm whirled in his mind. And then he did the unthinkable which left Samara in an even worse state of confusion.

—He brought his finger to his lips.

 _Don't speak._

Samara turned back to the fight, her mind filled with so many questioned that she felt faint. What was going on? Why didn't he say anything?

She could feel Merle's unruffled breath on the back of her neck, cooling her heated skin. He was doing it purposely to remind her that he was right there, watching her every move.

She didn't need to be reminded. She was agonizingly aware of his ominous presence. It felt like teeth were scrapping against the tender skin of her throat just ready for the signal to sink in and tear out her flesh.

Samara licked the bead of sweat that rolled to her lips. Something didn't feel right. Wouldn't the Governor had thrown her in the arena at first glimpse for killing his men? Unless…

Olive green eyes widened in clarity.

 _Ah…_

The crowd erupted in elation as the fight ended with the Woodbury standing triumphantly over Dani's unconscious body. Didn't matter that he was bruised and bloody, he won a harsh fight.

The Governor tsked in displeasure.

"Guess I lost one of my cigars."

* * *

Samara couldn't sleep.

Her mind was too riled up for her to get any rest. Besides that, she was waiting. Sooner or later, he had to join her company. There were certain things they had to speak about. Samara had done nothing in this dim room but think about this 'Merle situation'.

This was bad, from all angles.

This man held the key to her instant and most likely horrific demise. Again, the executioner's block awaited her while the crows cried for fresh blood. But she also had her own method to keep herself alive.

—Daryl's location.

The moment of truth came as the door to her cell opened and in walked the man she had been musing about.

Merle didn't enter too far into her cell. He just leisurely settled against the wall next to the door. He hadn't even turned on the light to her cell, the hallway's lights barely illuminating the small room.

Samara kept to her side, her eyes never leaving him.

As a man that never seemed to stay serious for a long duration of time, he didn't disappoint as that godawful smirk made its appearance.

"Well, I gotta say this ain't what I thought I'd find once I got back." He rubbed his raggedy jaw and even in the dimness of the room she could see the tension in his neck; how his veins bulged with the added strain. "The woman that tried to kill me twice, now a prisoner in the Governor's little corner of paradise. Heh, you got shit luck, sweetheart."

His grin turned razor-sharp, no different from a shark's maw.

"You wanna know why? Because you're stuck with _me_ now."

If he thought he was the only one with aces up his sleeve he was wrong.

"He doesn't know, does he? That we met before."

This had been the reason why Merle hadn't uttered a word or created a scene. Back then, after they had been chased through the forest, she and Michonne had heard a gun go off. Merle must have killed the other survivor. But then, why come back with more? What story did he spin to the Governor?

Merle's smirk fell off.

"Why didn't you tell him?" Her own leer had a set of crocodile teeth worthy of any shark's. "Don't tell me it's because two women got the upper hand on you."

The anger stemming off him was almost palpable. She hit the mark, but that infuriating grin of his just resurfaced.

"Nice little story you told him, about the group at the farm. Losin' them to biters and the one that ran off in the night. Goddamn poetic. Almost shed a tear." The tension now turned into a festering wound. He glowered harshly as his blues almost smoldered in the murkiness of the room. "But I didn't hear no mention of there actually bein' only you and that black bitch with the Jap sword. Oh, and let's not forget about that blonde I saw you two haulin' in the car like dead deer. Where were they in the story?"

Samara shrugged, feigning ignorance.

Merle stood up and like lightning, he was upon her. The Native hissed as he grabbed her by the front of her shirt and smashed her against the wall crudely. Samara swore as she felt her back do a double take, her spine jarred from the cold cement.

"Where are they, huh?" Like a bull, he puffed against her, his eyes only projecting murder. "Who were those three you were with? I know you ain't part of a bigger gang. It was just the three of you bitches."

"Why the fuck should I tell you anything?" She spat back, furious by his manhandling.

"Because I can always tell the Governor about your little headcount with his men."

"And you'll just be exposing your own lies." She finished that sentence for him, unafraid. He didn't intimidate her. His kind she had dealt with before. He was nothing new.

"I'll get a slap on the wrist. Not like I haven't before, but you…" His hand quickly let go of her shirt and grabbed her by the neck. Samara gagged as she felt those thick fingers constrict against her windpipe. A mere few inches separated their faces now. "He won't be kind to you. If you think the arena is bad, wait till you see 'the room'."

"Uuuu _, scary."_ Samara spat sarcastically.

"Ain't no joke, honey. If you think the Governor is cruel with his little arena, guess again. That man is even more twisted than I am and you _should_ be afraid of him."

 _Enough._

Using all the force she could muster at the moment, Samara pushed Merle away from her presence. The thought of him so near made her want to violently beat someone. Merle took a few steps back, sneering at her actions and balling up his fists in anger.

"I'm not telling you shit and you're not going to say shit because since there are no other survivors besides you and I!" The Native barked with her long forgotten authority of a US Marshal. "There's no one stopping me from embellishing what really happened. You don't fool me, redneck. I think your boss would be very angry to find out the truth since you did lead that second group out to the slaughter without telling him. So, technically, those guys' deaths are on your head, not mine. How happy do you think he's going to be when he learns that? Maybe you should be the one worried about 'the room'."

It happened too quickly. A fist came towards her face, but Samara caught it with her fast reflexes. She might have dodged his initial blow but she couldn't escape his second.

Samara hissed as her skin stung with extreme heat. Her brain felt like it was bouncing around in her head as Merle used his metal hand to slap her. The man caught her jaw in a bruising grip and Samara's finger coiled around the offending appendage, squeezing and sinking her nails in.

"Now, listen to me, you cunt." The man's eyes were impossibly cold. She knew them too well, the eyes of a killer. She could sometimes catch a glimpse of them in the mirror. "You keep your mouth shut and I'll just be walkin' around with no idea of who you are. Everybody will be as happy as clams."

Merle pushed her away and Samara stumbled and tripped over herself, falling to the gritty floor. Growling, the woman spat saliva mixed with blood and it landed right on Merle's boot. The man scowled and he would have kicked her if a rusty door opening in the distance didn't alert them.

Merle gave her one last glare, before his shadowy presence disappeared out of her cell.

Samara listened until she heard no more footsteps before she let out a sigh of relief. Rolling over her back with a groan, Samara remained sprawled out without a worry for the dirt accumulating on her clothes. It didn't matter, the material was already coated in filth, sweat and blood.

"Heh."

A large, wicked smile spread over her lips making her appear draconian.

Samara knew how she'll be getting out of Woodbury now.

* * *

 _ **Foot Note:**_ So, Merle's finally in the picture and he won't make things easy for Samara, naturally. But neither will she.


	35. Victory Isn't Always Sweet

"Any progress?"

The Governor perused over the papers strewn across the desk, searching for any words of interest. It had been two days since Samara had given them the information and he hadn't seen her since. The duties he had concerning the town overshadowed any of his prisoner's welfare.

"Unfortunately, no." Milton sighed as he wiped his utensils with disinfecting alcohol.

"Not like there ain't more to find out." Merle piped in as he poked and prodded the live walker head sitting on an examination tray. "Biters are what they are, nothin' more."

"And that way of thinking hinders us from learning anything about them." Milton frowned at the one armed man. He was displeased with the man's presence in his lab. Before the Governor arrived, Merle had been enjoying a cigarette despite knowing this place was smoke free. "What if they can be turned back? If the people that got infected could be brought back to _actual_ life?"

Merle scoffed in derision. "Sure, and maybe the Second Comin' might just happen tomorrow while I'm takin' a shit. Wouldn't want to miss Jesus's homecomin', now would I?"

Milton grimaced.

Governor had long ago stopped listening as he was once again distracted by Samara's jewelry. No news in the biter department had him search for something of more interest in the guise of a beaded necklace.

"What's that?" Merle noticed the man's peculiar interest. Taking the necklace out of his hands, Merle observed it with a more knowing eye. It didn't take long for him to put two and two together. "Bear fangs."

"Bear?"

"Yeah, real." He touched the yellowed fangs with the reverence of an experienced hunter. "Decades old, maybe even over a hundred."

"There must be a story to this."

Milton watched both men with a strange sort of fascination, but his main focus was the turquoise necklace. The Governor still carried it around like a prized possession. Perhaps a trophy.

"She's gotten under your skin, hasn't she?" Milton asked softly. He'd noticed it the first time, the way the Governor's expression changed whenever his focus was on the necklace. He'd never seen it before.

"Who?" Merle's lips contorted in displeasure. "The squaw?"

The Governor gave the man a pointed look. He hated that kind of talk.

"She wants to fight Micah."

" _Wants_?" Milton's brows rose in incredulity. "As in, not forced to fight?"

"Mhm." He took back the necklace and shoved it back in his jeans. "She's interestin', I'll give her that."

"Or possibly insane." Milton mumbled. He was starting to understand the man's fascination with her.

The Governor smiled. "Amazin' how those two qualities are almost mistaken for each other. I find that the more mad you are the more you shine in this world."

"While people like me are just background noise, right?"

"Milton, you meddle around with the dead. That makes you just a little bit insane." The Governor walked over to the small cardboard cut-out of Woodury. His fingers glided over the roofs of the buildings as his mind looked towards the future of this small town. "To tell you the truth I didn't expect the woman to survive until this point. She was an insignificant detail in my eyes. I was focused more on physically and psychologically destroyin' Dani's group, but things took a strange turn."

"You're givin' her the spi—" Merle stopped himself just in time. "Micah, ain't you?"

"I've been thinkin' about it, but then I realize that that woman has somethin' bad brewin' up for him and I don't know how the others will react to it."

"I don't think they can get anymore excited than they already are." Milton put away his utensils in a metal box. The town's people were a strange bunch, not at all to his tastes. In the daylight they were normal people that did their duties and greeted everyone happily, but at night, when the ghouls were brought out and the prisoners unshackled, they transformed like werewolves.

Truthfully, he was disturbed by them when the darkness settled and the torches were lit.

"Don't get sarcastic." The Governor rasped with a faint glare. "I meant things could go sour in an instant."

"What do you think she'll do? Kill him? Not like that hasn't happened before."

Merle laughed that mocking chortle of his. "Trust me, that woman's capable of worse."

The Georgia redneck failed to notice the veiled glance thrown his way, but the Governor returned to passivity just as quickly as his suspicion rose.

Merle lost the amusement as he watched his leader gravely. "Sir, with all due respect, why is this woman still alive? Ain't like you to keep rotten apples."

"I think I've made exceptions in the past." The knowing look was sufficient in intent.

Merle scowled before backing down.

"One I still disagree with."

The Governor huffed in slight amusement. Milton must have not realized he had said that out loud because Merle was upon him like a barnacle.

"And I thought we were gettin' along, Milton." His metal-hand draped over his shoulder in a friendly gesture. To anyone who didn't know, they would think they were just comrades messing around, but the Governor knew better. He could see Merle's sharp fangs peeking from underneath his lips. "I thought we were _best_ friends."

The knife attached to his metal prosthetic was close to Milton's face. Too close for the man's liking as uneasiness made him sweat coldly.

As entertaining it was to see Milton interact with Merle, they had bigger fish to fry.

"Merle."

No more was needed to get the man off. He recognized that authoritative tone and knew when to heed it.

Merle's arctic blue eyes settled back on the man in charge. Milton, while still ruffled, also gave him his full attention.

"What do you wanna do, Governor?"

The Governor smirked wolfishly as his fingers brushed over the necklace in his pocket.

He knew.

* * *

A bang on her door startled her out of her nap.

"Yo, Pocahontas! Wake up!"

Samara grimaced in post-slumber crankiness as she recognized that hick voice.

Merle's leering face peered through the small window boarded with iron bars on the door. Those blue eyes watched her intently. Again, she felt like prey carefully observed before the kill.

"You'll be fightin' Micah tomorrow night."

That rose Samara to a sitting position, her mind more awake than ever.

 _So, the Governor gave in? Good._

While the short notice wasn't to her liking, Samara wasn't about to complain. There was no time for that. She had to physically and mentally prepare herself as the fight won't be an easy one. She had to make it as short as possible. If she dragged it out there existed the possibility that Micah would win. She had to hit fast and powerfully the sensitive points in the human body—eyes, ears, nose, chin, windpipe, solar plexus, groin, knee, shin. Go for them and she had a chance at winning. Especially since Micah was the most impulsive of the twins. She just had to enrage him enough for him to leave himself open, but this could also backfire since it could give him an added advantage to kill her.

—A double edged sword.

One that she'll have to chance.

"Do both of us a favor and get yourself killed."

Samara blinked. _Merle's still here?_

"Because you want it, I'll do _exactly_ the opposite." Her retort had been weak, but she had other difficulties on her mind that didn't involve the trailer trash hick.

Merle smirked, his slightly yellow teeth from too much tobacco greeting her.

"You're gonna get your due, squaw. Best part is, you did it by your own hand."

Samara flipped him off before flopping down on the mattress and turning towards the wall, sick of seeing his face. Especially his _blue_ eyes.

Even in death, _he_ still haunted her in one form or the other. She preferred her nightmares over this tangible remembrance. At least then she knew they weren't real, just her overactive mind playing nasty tricks.

Having to be confronted with those _eyes_ in the body of another man was just pure _torture_.

She didn't know how much longer she could hold the ugly, deformed beast in.

* * *

Rough fingers smoothed over the dark material in his hands.

Daryl was in Samara's cell, sitting on her bed with her Confederate coat in hand. He starred blankly at the dark grey color as his thumbs unconsciously but gently caressed the coarse material.

Only now did he realize that this was the first time he stepped foot in her abode. She was a messy woman, with clothes draped around the floor, books left pilled up near her bed, toiletries haphazardly placed across the small shelf underneath the mirror above the sink. But if there was one thing Samara kept tightly immaculate, it was her weapons. The top half of her bunk bed was littered with weapons of all kinds—from guns to knives, all arranged by size and positioned calculatingly.

—Just one glimpse in her cell and you knew what she valued most.

Daryl brought the coat closer and inhaled deeply. He could still smell her scent—herbal, with a hint of earth and fresh cut grass. It lingered like the dead in the air making him nauseous.

A week had passed now and they still haven't found one trace of her or Oscar and the world was slowly crumbling around him.

Footsteps neared.

Daryl ripped the coat from his face, a small blush rising to his cheeks.

The blanket acting as a door was pushed aside and in walked Andrea.

They both stared at each other in silence, neither expecting the others presence. Andrea took a deep breath before sitting on the defunct toilet which Samara had transformed into a chair.

She looked worn out. Her golden locks, once lively and bright, were now limp and paled in comparison to their former selves. The shadows underneath her eyes from the countless restless nights gave her a ghoulish aspect. Daryl understood. He wasn't any better for wear either.

"Feels surreal, doesn't it?" Andrea expressionlessly scrutinized the coat in Daryl's hands. "It feels like barely yesterday Samara was here and now…"

The rest of that sentence was left suspended. It was too dreadful to speak out loud.

But Daryl did.

"We ain't gonna find her." He knew better now than to give hope where there wasn't any. "She's gone."

"Don't say that." Andrea glared reproachfully as Daryl apathetically dropped the coat on the dusty ground.

"She's probably hundreds of miles away, bein' done god knows what to her."

"Stop it." Andrea's eyes widened at the horrible images Daryl was conjuring.

But he couldn't stop. Daryl was like a broken faucet unable to halt the words from gushing out.

"Or she's dead somewhere in a—"

Slap!

Andrea hit him so rigorously that his head moved to the side, a red blotch growing on his stinging skin. Daryl hardly felt it, though. He was barely even there. Just a ghost, floating through a desolate eternity.

"You listen to me, Daryl. You have to stop talkin' like that. It isn't helpin' anybody, especially you." Andrea barked as she glared unwavering in her resolve. "I can see how it's killin' you. With each day, you're distancin' away from us. You barely eat, you're angry all the time, and I'm not judgin' you, Daryl. God knows, I feel the same." Her pale blue eyes shined with such rage that Daryl almost felt it scorching his skin. "I wanna tear down these walls in anger. I wanna kill those motherfuckers for what they did! But you can't keep goin' on like this. We're gonna find the both of them, _alive_."

Daryl scoffed, unaffected by her speech.

"Right, like we found Sophia."

Andrea shut her eyes tightly in dread. She could still vividly remember that little girl coming out of the barn, ashen skin and milky eyes, no more alive than the monsters they purged.

To think Samara was one of them, roaming the world without awareness was _too_ _much_.

"She ain't dead." Her eyes opened resolutely with no room for question. "I can _feel_ it."

It had been like an explosion. It swelled and rose inside him, his will no longer able to control the raging fire.

Daryl spat as he jumped to his feet, murder in his eyes.

"She ain't indestructible!" He screamed in fury and resentment towards the blond woman and to himself. She, with her delusions, trying to trick him into believing that all will be well in the end. And him, thinking somewhere deep inside that maybe there was a chance. "You and Rick keep talkin' as if she's armor protected, but she ain't! She's arrogant and aggressive and childish! Her shitty attitude got her in more trouble than I can count!" Hampton, Geneva, this…these were just off the top of his head. That woman was a powder keg ready to explode at any moment's notice, killing everyone within range. "Like a small kid with a butterfly, rippin' off its wings and then when its dead she wants others to come and fix her problem! That ain't a sane adult, that's a brat in an grown-up body!"

The ocean in Andrea's eyes was motionless with no wave in sight. She thickly swallowed the accumulated saliva before opening her lips.

"Yeah, she's all that." Her voice was husky and stiff as if on the verge of tears. "I never said she isn't, but if that's all you think about her then why would you ever care? Why would you be with her?"

"Who says I do?" He spat, his eyes narrowing further. The aggravation inside him was reaching dangerous levels. He felt like kicking something, destroying everything inside her room just to be rid of the awful pressure growing within.

Andrea snorted in ridicule. "Now who's bein' a brat?"

Silence.

Daryl pressed his lips tightly, his body unwilling to let him talk. He had a history of saying the wrong things even if he didn't mean them.

Andrea sighed as her gaze dropped to her pale fingers. They were thinner than she had remembered…

"Samara has a good heart despite all her faults. Otherwise, she would've never helped us. From the moment she met us until now, she could have robbed us blind and ran off." Those blue eyes connected with his and all Daryl could see was the warm affection the woman had for their lost comrade. "Trust me, she's capable of that. I've been with her for almost half a year and I've seen the good and bad in her, but I wouldn't trade her for anybody. Because when we needed help, she was there to give it without ever wantin' anythin' in return. She and Michonne stuck with me and brought me back from the brink of dead. Risked gettin' bitten and killed to get me the medicine I needed. In the state I was in, anyone else wouldn't have bothered." She smiled faintly melancholic. "They would've just wrote me off as dead."

The blond rose from her seat and approached the _hurt_ man. Her posture was straight and her confidence strong, no trace of tears or doubts ever having been present. Her hardened blues had Daryl almost want to hide in shame for his weakness.

"Until I see her body, I'm never gonna to believe she's dead."

Daryl's eyes widened. That phrase sparked a memory deep within. He had said those exact words to Samara when questioned about Merle's chances of being alive.

He felt like such a fool. He had faith that his brother, injured and with only one hand, could survive a walker infested city like Atlanta and brave the open world while his stump still freshly bled from a cauterized wound, but he couldn't have faith in a woman who had survived a harsh winter with barely any rations and overcame difficult obstacles in stride, always coming out on top, thriving.

"That woman is probably out there wreckin' havoc and thinkin' of ways on how to get herself and Oscar back here. So, stop with the pity party." She pushed him in anger at his desolate outlook on their friends. "You ain't the only one hurtin'. Start eatin' cause you need your strength. We're headin' out tomorrow early and you need to be in one piece. Not for us, but for them…for _her_."

Andrea scowled one last time before turning her back on him. Daryl remained rooted in place, unable to utter a word as his mind ate him out. He felt so _sick_.

A pale hand crushed the curtain to the side, but she didn't step out. Andrea's shoulders sagged as she let out the heavy breath she had been holding in. Turning around, there were tears pooled at her lower lashes making her eyes luster in the dimness.

She retracted her steps and only stopped when she was in front of Daryl. Their different shaded blue eyes sought each other and they understood without uttering a single word. They were both grieving for their mutual loss. They could hide it all they wanted, but the unshed tears were still ever present on their faces, whether it be in the light of day or in the obscurity of night. Because they could never escape that ever present through—Samara was dead and they were chasing a fantasy. Or worse, she was alive but never to be seen again. Two harsh realities that left them equally distraught.

Slowly and careful not to spook him, Andrea gingerly wrapped her arms around Daryl's limp body.

"We'll find her, Daryl. Maybe nor today or tomorrow, but I know we'll see her again." Her grip on him tightened as her eyes repressed the tears from falling. "You all thought we were dead, but you see how that ended."

Daryl swallowed thickly as he felt himself crumbling to dust. Right now, Andrea was the only thing keeping him afloat in this mad world. If she loosened her grip on him, even just a pinch, he might just fall into total despair.

The hunter's arms suddenly enveloped the blond and held tightly. Andrea almost felt herself picked off from the ground as Daryl all but squeezed the life out of her. She didn't object, though. She needed this just as much as he did. Like two children lost in a violent storm.

Daryl felt the heaviness slowly dissipate from his shoulders as he embraced the one woman who understood just what he was going through. Andrea had lost precious people to her just as he had now. His heart felt so heavy, gripped in piercing talons and entwined with barbed wire. One false step and those sharp edges will rip his organ into pieces and Daryl will lose another part of himself to the darkness inside.

"Daryl…" Andrea sniffed, her voice distorted in sorrow. "I've always known there was somethin' between the two of you and I can tell from miles away that you care deeply for Samara." She disentangled from him and softly cupped his face, but Daryl wouldn't look at her. Andrea followed his line of sight and when they finally connected again, she smiled so brilliantly that it made Daryl's heart do a leap.

"So, please…Don't let your heart go cold."

An hour after Andrea had left his presence and still Daryl resided in Samara's cell. He sat on the bed, holding the worn out Confederate coat, only this time his grip was decisively firm. His blue eyes barely held any hint of his prior hopelessness or uncertainty. In its stead, resolve rose from the ashes, hardening his muscles and fortifiying his mind.

It was time for him to stop wallowing in pity. It was time to find their lost ones and bring them home.

He _will_ find Samara. Even if months pass and seasons change, he will see her again because she had the irritating quality to always pop back when he least expected it. Besides, he didn't feel like letting go of her yet. She didn't get to escape that easily.

* * *

An anxious exhale.

Samara stood outside the arena, carefully examining the area where her fate will be decided. As before, people invaded the pews as the Governor spun a story to make everything more righteous and guiltless. He wouldn't want the masses to feel ashamed of their joy over another human's death, now would he?

In his story, she had been the _poor_ , abused prisoner that had been dragged around by Dani's group for their nefarious deeds. But hope came in the guise of the Governor, as he saved her soul from their clutches and gave her sanctuary. He also _conveniently_ forgot to inform them that her sanctuary was a small, cold prison cell with no light. And now…Now, she was ready to exact her revenge towards her captors for their cruelty and the crowd _loved_ it. They exploded in cheer and sympathy, all rooting for Samara and praising her courage.

 _Imbeciles. You're all being led around by this man with the dead gaze and you follow his every word readily. Nothing but sheep to be slaughtered._

Their beastly yells didn't faze the Native in the slightest as her attention was solely focused on the man on the other side of the arena—Micah.

His glare was fierce as he spat at the crowd. He seemed roughed up as several bruises were starting to bloom prettily on his skin and blood trickled out of his nose in a thin strip. There irregularities about him were fresh in design. Had the Governor decided to give her a head's start?

Her jaw clenched. She didn't need or want his help.

The man in question finished his speech and departed from the spotlight, but not before throwing her one last glance. It was a commanding one, one with the intention of tightening her collar.

" _You remember what we talked about?"_

" _Refresh my memory."_

 _A coarse hand grabbed her jaw painfully._

" _Know this, I'm allowin' you today to have your small piece of vengeance. Do as I said and don't piss over my good graces."_

His words had been clear.

— _Do as I say or die._

If he hadn't hissed those words right before she was brought to the arena, she would have never recalled his refusal for a death without his say so.

Samara wasn't sure she'll even heed the man's warning. Right now, she wasn't in the most cooperating state of mind. The only thing she wanted was Micah's head on a spike. Maiming him was also another nice alternative.

But something unexpected happened. In the shadow of the pews, she saw Dani guarded by two Woodbury soldiers. Samara's brow fell into a frown—Why was he here? Her gaze switched to the Governor's for clarification, but he was as lively as a statue. He only stared with those dead eyes that never failed to send a chill down her spine.

Dani wasn't the only surprise as the walkers chained to the cement blocks still retained their teeth. They were armless but their jaws still snapped with hunger at the frenzied crowd.

—What was the Governor playing at? Was this an experiment to him? See what his labrat would do?

This was a test. She wouldn't put it behind him to try something so sadistic.

 _It doesn't matter._

Samara had her own mind on what to do.

The handcuffs came off and Micah was pushed into the arena. Samara took those steps willingly, her fingers curling up into tight fists.

The way she saw it, this fight had to end quickly. Samara needed to keep her distance from Micah, lest he took the upper hand with physical superiority. Micah was a brawler that probably learned how to fight on the streets. Not efficiently, but enough to cause damage. Anything that was to her advantage she had to use. She needed to fight smart and cunning and most of all, dirty, because as she had explained to the Governor—there was no honor in fighting for your life. That was fodder material for the movies to brainwash the masses into thinking combat was something grandiose.

It _wasn't_. The blood-soaked grit on the pavement along with the unwashable dark stains was proof of that.

Samara settled into a defensive pose, ready to move at any moment's notice. Her eyes never left her opponent, unwilling to let even the slightest of movements escape her notice.

As she had predicted, Micah rushed her recklessly. _A brawler, through and trough._

His fist rose and Samara dodged his upcoming attack just as he was within a breath's distance. The man's free arm swung to catch her, but Samara was faster in avoiding him. Crouching down, Samara grabbed a fistful of as much dirt and dust as possible and waited for the right moment. As the Hispanic turned, Samara threw her ammunition into his face catching him by surprise. In instinct he tried to shield his face, but his arm wasn't enough to evade the entire gust of dirt. Micah sputtered and coughed as the minuscule grains got into his mouth and eyes.

This momentary distraction gave Samara the time to send her fist crashing into his solar plexus.

Crack!

The Native hissed as she retreated, her knuckles stinging with pain. Months ago she wouldn't have been able to break a bone that easily, but the repeated exercise on the punching bag gave her fists an extra boost in strength, along with bone and muscle endurance.

The blow left Micah breathless. He fell to his knees, unable to utter a word as he struggled to breath through the physical shock. Samara wasted no time and pushed him to the ground. She quickly climbed atop him, trapping one of his arms with her thighs. In her clutches, Samara showed no mercy as she began pummeling him with all her strength. Micah defended himself to the best of his ability with just one hand while still in a bad state with his lungs. Just as Samara's knuckles began to crack from the harsh blows, Micah's free hand grabbed her by the back of her head and before she knew it, her forehead collided with his.

—Supernovas occurred right before her eyes, blinding her.

Dizzy and out of focus, she hadn't been able to foresee the punch to her jaw. The force threw her off him and she landed to the side, right near a chained walker. Jarred, Samara crawled away even as her vision swam. She didn't distance herself from the walker though, she just moved around until she was behind it. Rising up on unsteady legs, Samara grabbed the monster by the shoulders to stop it from turning around and trying to bite her, and kept it pointing forward towards the other source of food. Micah rushed recklessly but stopped once the walker snapped its putrid teeth at him.

The biter was an effective shield against Micah, who had only murder in his eyes. No matter how much he sidestepped, Micah couldn't get to the Native out of instinctive fear.

She couldn't remain like this forever. Sooner or later, she would have to leave the walker's side. Her eyes moved around for a solution until they landed on the chain hook attached to the walker's leash.

 _Sweet._

Unhooking it, Samara pushed the walker right onto Micah. The man screamed bloody murder as the walking corpse fell atop him and tried to bite his face off. Without a second thought, Samara jumped onto the walker's back and pushed its head onto Micah while he tried to push the creature away.

What proceeded next was a morbid game of who had more strength in their arms.

As the walker's head neared Micah's precious face, Samara looked towards the shadows. No doubt Dani was watching with his heart stuck in his throat. This was his brother that was facing death, after all.

A slow grin spread her lips wide. This wasn't a normal one, but wicked and malicious that left the skin cold to the touch.

' _I hope the last thing you ever see before dying are walkers devouring your brother.'_

She told him that, what seemed to be a life time ago. It seemed her words will come true on this day.

But then her sight switched to the Governor and she remembered his 'words of wisdom'—no killing.

 _Such a complicated dilemma._

Her whole attention returned to Micah as they tugged and pushed the walker like a yo-yo.

There wasn't time to think. She just had a few more seconds to decide how this night will end. Will she die or will she live for another day?

Samara tsked.

She got off the walker as she chose self-preservation.

Without the added weight, Micah roared as he pushed the walker away. The corpse toppled over to the side and Micah swiftly stood up only to stomp onto its head, splattering its brains onto the asphalt. Grinding the walker's squishy brain matter onto the cold ground, Micah sighed in relief. But once he turned, he was met with a barrage of sharp strikes from Samara's belt.

The leather lashed against the Hispanic's head and body, making it impossible for Micah to try escaping or even fighting back. Samara left him with no room to even think as she striked against him with ragged breath. All that pent-up anger came undone with each frenzied attack, the following harsher than the last.

Samara yelled in heartbreaking rage.

 _This bastard! This soulless fucking bastard! It's all his fucking fault!_

Tears welled up in her eyes.

He couldn't breathe. He just swung from the roof like a lifeless sack of bricks. His life had ended so shortly because of some dumb, gangbangers that had no reason to still walk this earth. They were nothing but cockroaches to be stepped on. So why? Why did they get to live while Daryl died a horrifying, slow death?

 _He must have felt so alone…_

Micah's skin swelled and bled as the metal end of the belt hit him without mercy. There was no sign that Samara would loosen up any time soon, instead it seemed that with each strike it gave her even more stamina. Having enough of the abuse, Micah took a chance and threw his arm out. The leather hit his palm and his fingers curled around it tightly.

Samara grit her teeth as Micah pulled on the belt, aiming to destabilize her. Letting go of her temporary weapon, the Native threw a kick to his shin only to have Micah hit her leg with the belt. Samara hissed as even behind the thick material of her jeans she felt the sting.

It was her turn now to defend herself from the lashes as Samara dodged Micah's poor attempts while backing away. Her eyes flew about looking for anything she could use to throw at him or beat him with. There was nothing.

Despite his wounded wobble, Micah's furious contorted face sent a chill down her spine. If that son of a bitch got his hands on her, it would be the end for Samara. But as she continued backing up, Samara knew she was nearing the walker that was positioned right where she was headed. She could hear it snapping its maw and rattling the chain in mad hunger.

Samara stopped. She couldn't take another step as she could almost feel the walker's teeth on her. Knowing this, Micah let out a insane grin and rushed towards her, intent on sending her into an early grave. Pacing her frantic breath, Samara waited for him to close up on her. Just as he swung the leather belt again, Samara dodged to the side and sprinted. Micah seemed to have sprouted some brain cells in the last few minutes as he anticipated her slick retreat and managed to catch Samara by the hair. The woman let out a short-lived screech as her hair was pulled harshly, ripping out several strands and peeling patches of skin off her scalp. Through the fog of pain, Samara turned her body as best she could in her position and did the unexpected. Something even herself hadn't anticipated as she had simply reacted.

—Her teeth sunk into Micah's cheek.

The Hispanic yelled in pain as blood poured down his neck. In desperation, his fists swung wildly hitting any part he could find.

It hurt badly, Samara winced with the impact of each blow. Micah didn't take any precautions with his strength and simply assaulted her like a prehistoric brute. At one point, Samara saw stars again as one fist hit her over the side of her head.

At this point, both fighters were exhausted with an abundance of sweat pouring down their skin. A fight never lasted more than a few minutes in real life, especially when it concerned people that had little experince with hand-to-hand combat. Endurance and experience were key factors and both lacked these attributes. Samara hadn't trained all her life for this and neither had Micah—they were just doing the best they could do with the knowledge they had.

With great difficulty, Micah managed to dislodge her from him, but not without Samara taking a good chunk out of him. The Native fell to the ground, blood splattered across her mouth. With disgust, she spat the piece of flesh as Micah howled in his loss. His hands shook as he held his bloodied cheek with the flesh hanging off it.

Completely focused on his plight, Micah didn't notice Samara rise into a crouch. With a vicious yell, she punched him right in the groin with all the force she had left. Micah lost his voice as he cupped his tender region, unable to cope with this merciless onslaught on his body.

With her breath ragged, Samara rose onto shaky feet and stared down at the tortured Micah. He was nothing more than dirt. A bug to be stepped on. He was at her mercy and Samara was lacking in any at the moment.

Forgetting the Governor's words and with all the hatred coursing through her veins, Samara delivered one final kick in Micah's stomach.

The crowd went silent.

A scream boomed out in despair.

With grotesque squishy sounds, Micah fell onto the walker and the monster tore open the conjunction between his neck and shoulder. Blood poured out like a faucet, painting his once white shirt ruby red.

Samara fell to the ground exhausted.

—It was over. Micah was finished.

Relief was nowhere to be found as she realized the consequences of her actions. She had acted out of impulse and damned herself in the process. Micah was supposed to have lived for her survival's sake, but it seemed her black heart had other thoughts in mind.

But…

She won.

She took justice by the throat and came up on top. So then…Why did she feel so empty? Why was there no feeling of triumph or satisfaction?

Tearing himself away from the walker, Micah stared in shock at the missing part of him. He couldn't comprehend what had happened. One moment he had been fine and the next he was covered in blood. His eyes vacantly moved to the woman on the ground.

It was her fault.

This was all her fault and she had to make it all better.

She had to reverse this!

With a bellow of a beast lost to reason, Micah dashed furiously towards Samara. She knew what his eyes spoke without him even having to utter one word—if he was going to die, he'll take her down with him.

But Micah never managed to lay one pinky finger on her as a loud boom rang through the deathly quiet corner of paradise. Micah's chest exploded with buck shot and he fell, his upper half collapsing onto her legs. Samara crawled away in a panic, kicking Micah's weak grabby fingers just as Martinez approached casually and shot the still breathing man in the head.

Silence.

Samara stared in awe at the mangled body. She hadn't expected outside interference, but she wasn't about to shun it. All that adrenaline that coursed through her body began to leave her in droves and with a groan, Samara fell onto her back. Her whole body hurt. Her knuckles felt like they were steeped in hot coal and she still experienced light vertigo. Her jaw throbbed mightily and the coppery taste of blood wasn't lost to her.

Her entire body shook with relief. She was alive.

Samara stared at the night sky, ignorant of the world around her. She didn't hear the shouts or the Governor's voice issuing orders. Her whole world was centered on one chain of thoughts—she avenged them, her dead comrades. She avenged Daryl. His killer had faced a worse death, but much too quicker for her taste. All in all, blood had been spilt in consolation. But the empty feeling inside her chest still wouldn't go away. It gaped and grew with each second, swallowing her whole and leaving her a hollow carcass with oxygen mechanically pumping into her lungs.

This wasn't what should have happened. She should have been rejoicing. She had just killed Daryl's murderer and yet she felt nothing, not even a small leap of happiness.

A tear slid down the side of her eye, mingling with her raven hair.

Somebody picked her up. In her distant awareness, she could see Martinez along with Shumpert grip each one of her arms. They dragged her away from the satiated, blood-soaked arena, but not before she heard one sound that deafened any shout or scream the crowd could have produced.

Clap.

It carried out like thunder throughout the area, giving Samara the jolt to return to reality. She was in Woodbury. She had killed Micah and she was being dragged away like dead deer.

Another clap reverberated. Then another and another until the pews erupted in _magnificent_ glory. Justice had been served beautifully tonight and the mob had been satiated.

It didn't matter to Samara though, because in these final bleak moments she finally realized. This fight, her thirst for revenge—neither of these will bring Daryl back.

He was _gone_.

As the realization of the futility of her actions crashed over her head scattering her into a thousand pieces, a part of Samara's mind cleared with the view of the present. She was still in Woodbury. She was tens of miles away from her friends. She had little to no shot of escaping. She was probably being led to her death at that very moment. And she was _alone_.

The harsh reality was thus—

 _Nothing's changed._

* * *

Samara was thrown to the ground.

She coughed as she tasted a handful of dirt, it even sneaking into her nose, itching her insides. Samara tried her best to wipe it off, but she gave up half-way. What did it matter if she met the Reaper with a face full of grime?

They hadn't taken her to her cell, but to a different location not too far from the arena itself. Just enough that nobody had a visual of them even when the screaming started.

She was aware of what she had done, but it didn't matter anymore. Nothing did.

—Everything was as hollow as an old tree.

A pair of footsteps stopped right behind her and she knew even without looking who it was.

She was edgy, adrenaline still brimming underneath her skin. The fight left her in a state of high vigilance and right now she felt like she was standing on the edge of the precipice and just behind her stood the Governor, waiting for the excuse to push her over in the black chasm. And that was probably what he was doing.

The man in question watched her like a bird of prey.

"What part of 'don't kill' didn't you understand?"

Samara grimaced internally. His voice was too steady, almost like the morning when he spoke with Dani. That danger was ever present in the air, creating a sense of claustrophobia.

"I got caught up in the heat of the moment." But Samara wasn't exactly in a cooperating mood, not after the joylessness she felt. " _Sorry_."

The Governor looked at her placidly. It felt like eternity passed before he moved, quick as lightning. Within a moment, his boot connected roughly with her stomach. Samara coughed saliva and dirt as she crawled into herself to protect her body from the onslaught. The Governor was merciless in his assault, kicking every part of her, taking extra meticulous steps to ensure her back got the brunt of it knowing it was her most vulnerable point. The thrashing she had gotten earlier didn't seem to phase the man in the slightest as he brutally battered her.

Samara howled as the metal tip of his boot connected with her spine. Tears of pain leaked out as she moaned from the shock waves pinballing through her insides. She felt like her skeleton was about to discombobulate.

"I don't like it when people don't listen to me." He growled menacingly as his boot crashed onto her head, viciously grinding her face into the earth. "Especially when they have the gal to be arrogant about it."

The way the man spoke to her right now didn't give her much hope for getting out alive.

Samara sputtered as she fought to breathe. Her fingers sunk into her palms, leaving bloodied crescent moons behind. Her face was so hard pressed against the ground that even opening her mouth was a struggle as drool leaked out of her parted lips.

"You don't understand the predicament you're in, so let me inform you. You're alive because I _want_ it, not because you're needed. I could break your skull right now and nobody would care. You'll just become another biter with no teeth and then, you will be _obedient_." His voice softened, almost tenderly, but Samara wasn't fooled. The Governor was seconds away from sinking his teeth into her exposed throat. "Would you like that?"

His foot pressed against her head, eliciting muffled screams of pain from the woman below. Samara felt like her head was being crushed like a watermelon. She could hear her skull creaking from the pressure exercised on it; on the verge of collapsing.

Then, as if a miracle, the pressure disappeared along with the heavy weight on the back of her head.

Samara took large gulps of oxygen as she kept on coughing horridly. She could barely move, let alone sit up. Her entire body shook as she rolled over and stared out into the starry night sky.

 _It's such a beautiful night._

But her view of the star lit sky was destroyed by the hyenas grouped around her, drooling over the newly opened cadaver. Martinez, Shumpert, Merle and the leader of the pack, the Governor. Only his eyes distinguished him from the rest—they were _dead_.

"I'm…sorry." Samara barely managed to get the words out as her breath whizzed. "I couldn't let him live. It's because of him that my people are dead." The Native coughed between words, a fresh set of tears pooling at her lashes. "Why should he live?"

Governor looked at her through narrowed eyes. The man had an unreadable gaze that could rival Michonne's, but nothing compared it to the malice that poured out of his every pore.

"That guy was nothing more than a piece of shit! Trash to be thrown out! He didn't deserve to breathe the same air as _I_ do!" Samara spat angrily. Micah had been nothing more than human waste. The scraps of humanity, and she had done a great service by getting rid of him.

"Fuck him. You're getting angry over someone you don't even give a shit about?" She howled in a broken mocking hilarity. "What a fucking laugh!"

Theatrics.

This was all that it was. The Governor was playing with her again. This was all just an elaborate scheme for him to see her reaction. He himself had admitted in wanting to see her break. This was just one of those twisted games.

Samara finally understood what that sense of dread that had been hanging over her each time she came face to face with the Governor was. It had a name which she had been adamant in not recognizing. Her pride stubbornly wouldn't let her.

— _Fear_.

Certain, primal fear.

This man scared the hell out of her. Not a little, but _totally_ and wholeheartedly. Her heart clenched each and every time this man breached her personal bubble, thinking of the worst that was about to happen. What was worst was that she couldn't always read him or his actions, so the majority of the time she awaited the unexpected in terror.

This man was truly a Devil. The way he switched from human to some beast without a shred of humanity reminded her of a psychopath and you couldn't deal with a psycho. They followed only their own whims and desires, never mind if they were morally wrong or illogical. In their eyes, only their own actions were true.

The Governor took a step back, his impossibly cold eyes never leaving her beaten form.

Samara mentally thanked all the Gods for this small respite. She wasn't out of the fire yet, though. The Governor could at any moment flip his lid and cave her skull in.

But he didn't. The man slowly paced across the pavement, his hands on his hips. For a second, Samara's hazy mind imagined Rick in his stead and almost laughed at the morbid image.

—They didn't even come close in comparison.

"Sir?" Shumpert was the one to break the silence. To the three henchmen, this looked like a straight up kill. The woman had spit on their leader's orders, thrown his deal in his face and now laughed at him.

It was a no-brainer and yet—

"Micah would have lasted another few matches before he expired! I'm now one man short because of you!" He glared at the woman on the ground disdainfully. "And I have to explain to my people what the hell happened! Why there were deaths instead of just bruises! I should kill you. I don't need a wild card."

"If it had been anyone else, I wouldn't have done him in." She rasped between gasps. Her breathing had return to normal more or less, but she still felt like sandpaper coated the inside of her throat. And her back…electroshocks pulsed through her muscles making them sporadically spasm.

"Really, who? Dani, Winchester or one of my people?" He mocked her. "I think you already made up your mind on what you're gonna do about Dani's group."

Samara was silent. He got her there.

"Your people seemed to like it from what I heard."

They had cheered, haven't they? Like she had been the monster truck running over the worn out car.

 _Fucking rednecks…_

The Governor kept on glaring, no change in his livid temperament.

"…Yes, surprisingly."

It must have been a surprise to him too, to see his people cheer and yell for her. For the brutality she had reigned upon Micah.

"What happens now? Are you going to kill me?" She scoffed lifelessly, her eyes set on the clear night sky. "Do it. Who gives a fuck anymore? We're all just corpses waiting to decompose and be blown away by the wind. Nothing but sand…"

The Governor stared at her blankly. While he understood what she was going through, it didn't mean she got to die so easily. Her pain will fester on until she either killed herself or managed to walk hand-in-hand with it. No other way seemed satisfactory to him.

Merle walked up to the man in charge, his features contorted in fury.

"Sir, let's kill this bitch. She ain't never gonna listen to a word you say. She's just dead weight."

Dark navy clashed with clear ocean blue.

While the Governor partially agreed with Merle, he seemed to forget he had been in the same position the woman was now in. He too had been a feral dog, biting at anyone getting to close.

The Governor was sure he could make this woman remember how to fall in line.

"Merle, take her to the doctor."

It was instantaneous, the change in attitude.

"Governor, are you serious?!" Merle barely contained himself from yelling in the man's face. Had he lost his mind?

"Let it go, Merle." Martinez warned, reading himself if matters went amiss.

The Governor wasn't bothered, though. He was used to his soldier's volatile temper, a quality he hadn't been able to completely obliterate from his personality which, ironically, also made him one of his best. A double edged sword, so to say.

"After that, you're gonna take her to her cell where she'll remain until I decide what to do." The Woodbury leader continued as if Merle's outburst hadn't happened. "The woman will not be allowed out of there without my say or, well, her corpse if she decides to end it here."

Just as the man turned to leave, Merle did the unthinkable.

"This is crazy! Ain't no reason to keep her around!" His rough fingers harshly gripped the Governor's arm, in his anger forgetting who he was speaking to. "Look at her. She's already with one foot in the grave."

The Governor glared daggers at the offending hand. If he so wanted to, he could have Martinez cut it off as a lesson to the Georgia man. As if sensing his thoughts, Merle quickly retracted and lowered his eyes. A placating gesture of submission which always seemed to appeal to the leader's ego.

"Do as I say."

Merle looked on defeated as the Governor walked away with Shumpert tailing behind him.

All of this was irrelevant to Samara. She just laid on the ground, staring vacuously at the endless sky. She hadn't seen such a clear night where the stars twinkled playfully and the moon was in full rounded shape in ages. It felt oddly comforting yet she still couldn't feel anything in her heart—it was as empty as the never-ending space hidden by the sky.

 _I just…want to disappear._

* * *

Samara barely felt it, the doctor's prodding.

Stevens' voice was a distant echo, barely heard over the giant waves crashing over the jagged cliff. Samara was just standing on the precipice looking down at the loud chaos below. It was beguiling, the chaotic symphony. Like a dark opera with masked devils and succubuses calling out in temptation for the hero to join them in song and dance.

Samara felt so tired. Her bones hung so heavy underneath her skin that even the act of standing made it an incredible effort. Her eyes were barely able to hold themselves open as deep slumber lured her sweetly.

Nothing outside her narrow view of the harsh sea was of importance. The fight, the people of Woodbury, the Governor, not even Merle who was glaring at her from the door.

—It all felt so pointless.

"Congratulations on your win, I guess." Through the waves, Samara could hear Stevens talking. It was so faint that she had to strain her ears to hear. "I've never heard of a prisoner willingly enterin' the arena, but this day and age, surprises come at every corner."

No reaction.

"Killin' him in that fashion, though…That was unnecessary."

Silence.

"And yet, you don't look satisfied." The man's worn-out voice dropped to a forlorn whisper. "I guess the old sayin' does ring true—'He who seeks vengeance must dig two graves'."

 _Shut up._

She didn't want to hear his words anymore. They were like shrapnel digging into her flesh, making her bleed sadness and despair. Solitude was her only companion and she needed its cool embrace.

—If she was going to break down, she wanted to do it in the silence of her own little corner.

Stevens sighed. There wasn't anything he could get out of her, but what he could do was help her in the only way it was permitted for him.

"I have antidepressants if you need them."

A flicker of life.

"…I'm not depressed."

"But if you need them, just ask. I'm gonna tell the Governor to withhold any tasks he has for you for at least a day. Your body's too banged up for you to be walkin' around doing manual labor."

Again, Samara fell into a deep silence. Her eyes took on that blurred aspect, seeing nothing before.

"Merle, you can take her back to her cell." The man sighed as he pushed away on his mobile chair. There was nothing more he could do.

"Sure."

None to gently, Merle pulled the woman to a stand and all but dragged her out of the clinic. It was like dragging around an docile sack of sand.

"You must be some kind of cat with the way you avoid death at every turn. Either that or the Governor's got a hard on for ya." The man spat as he pushed her forward. "Couldn't you just die like all your ancestors?"

His words seemed to lit a flame deep inside. A short lived one, but just as scorching as any out of control fire.

"Fuck you, redneck." She threw him a nasty glower, her teeth bared. "Go wipe your ass with your right hand. Oh right, you can't. Unless you're into the cold, metal thrills."

The man growled and tripped her. Samara fell hard onto the ground and with her hands tied, she couldn't avoid her face scrapping against the pavement and drawing blood. She hadn't even had the time to gasp in pain as Merle grabbed her by the hair and twisted it until it felt like the stitches would rip out.

"Don't tempt me, bitch." Merle barked like a mad dog. "Don't think for a moment that I can't kill you, right here, right now. Ain't nobody gonna see us. I can always make it look like you did yourself in. Oh, poor squaw. The world was too much for her. _Boo-hoo_."

By her hair, he lifted her to her feet, but Samara pressed her lips tightly so the scream that threatened to come out wouldn't be heard. She had no intention of allowing this man to see her affected by him.

Without an ounce of pity, he pushed her forward.

"I suggest you keep your yap shut. The only thing you manage to do is give me a headache."

* * *

Samara breathed harshly.

The darkness around her was oppressing, cornering her into a small box with no windows or room to breath. There would be no relief tonight. This was it—the coming of the storm. It had been coming for a while now, but she had been avoiding it like the plague.

It was frightening, this growing ugly feeling inside her. It was sucking the life out of her and as the days passed, she could see less and less hope.

"Oh…"

A sharp intake.

 _It's coming._

It was slow at first. Just a discomfort in her stomach, but then it started boiling and sizzling and before she knew it, it was slowly crawling up her throat. Wide eyed, Samara clutched her arms in hopes of finding an anchor but it was useless. This was one situation she had no escape from.

A mangled sound came from within her throat. She shook her head, unwilling to let any sounds come from behind her tightly pressed lips as tears of frustration and despair pooled at her lower lashes.

A scream tore from deep within her gut as she fell to her knees.

Short lived, but the hurt emanating from it was almost palpable. It was a gut-wrenching pain that only those that have experienced loss know its agonizing embrace. It left you a distorted mess, unable to speak or even think rationally. It was like having a piece of yourself torn out and left with a bottomless void that could never be filled again.

Samara palmed her mouth and screamed into it. One, two then an abundance of tears flowed down her cheeks, wetting the collar of her shirt. Her other hand grabbed her shirt right in the center and twisted it until the material strained and her fingers ached.

 _It hurt so much._

Maggie was dead.

Oscar was dead.

— _Daryl is dead._

He was dead and Samara was never going to see him again. Never going to touch him or feel his intense gaze prickling her skin. Never going to feel those rough fingers smooth over her spine giving her that uncomfortable but soothing sensation.

–She was never going to argue with him again.

Samara sobbed openly as his last moments kept endlessly looping themselves in her mind. The way his face contorted, his hopeless struggle…his sacrifice. He was dead because of her. Because he felt the need to save _her_ , of all people. He could have just saved himself, but he just had to act the hero.

 _Stupid hick._

He wasn't a hero. He was a survivor like her. Her should have been the one taken with her, not Oscar. They could have escaped and succeeded in it. They would have been back at the prison now. They would have had two loses, but it was better if they had survived.

Samara hugged herself tightly.

She felt like her heart broke into a thousand pieces, scattered across this filthy, cold ground without compassion, and those pieces were slowly being swept away never to be seen again.

Feeling nothing, remaining apathetic…She should have followed that resolve. This was the only way of staying sane now. Nothing good ever came out of attaching herself to others, especially in such bleak times.

Samara punched herself in the head mercilessly. _Stupid, stupid, stupid!_

Anger poured out of her bloodshot eyes as tears continued to spill without end. Her fingers raked over the ground like a wild animal, growling in desolate rage. Her nails chipped and broke as she scratched the pavement, blood leaking out, but Samara barely felt it—the only thing that mattered was her grief and anger.

She should have never gotten involved with him. She should have let it be. With time those feelings of curiosity and companionship would have thinned and disappeared, never to be seen again and she would have been none the wiser. Anything was better than this feeling that was threatening to tear her in two.

Those that were left behind, either by death or abandonment, they knew…It was the worst feeling imaginable. Death was preferable, at least that way your were deaf, blind and dumb to the consequences that followed, to the hurt and futility.

In the end, you died alone in your own arms. Those that came and went, no matter how close they had been, will never be there in your dying moments. You were left with only yourself and the cold, desolate void.

Samara's forehead touched the ground. It felt so cool to her feverish skin. Her eyes stared unfocused into the pavement, tears lazily dripping and creating beads of dirt. Her mind whispered darkly, shriveling what was left of her into a shrunken, dried out old prune.

 _There's no hope._


	36. Slender Warrior

Light hit the Native's face, but she remained unmoving. She sat against the wall with her head hanging limp and her arms crossed over her bent knees. It looked like she hadn't moved in quite some time.

The Governor cautiously stepped inside the cell and crouched down a distance from her. He knew she was still alive from her moving shoulders, but Stevens had apprehensively informed him of her lack of appetite or sleep. The woman either paced across her cell relentlessly or slumped against the mattress or wall for hours on end.

 _"There's barely any life in her."_

Stevens was all too familiar with depression, raging from minor seasonal ones to the severe. The people of this town all had a limit and sometimes that limit was breached. The doctor himself was no stranger to moodiness and at times, fell down the slippery slope. Understandable. The world wasn't exactly a sweet place to live in anymore.

Before, the woman would have always readjusted in a defensive pose upon seeing him, but now she was as wilted as a dead flower.

"Have you given up?"

It sure looked like it. A pity, the Governor thought. She would have been more useful animated.

A twitch.

The Governor looked on in curiosity as the woman raised her head just enough so that her eyes could be seen. To the man's annoyance, they were as vacant as a void.

"Do you want to die?"

Was that her wish? Did the grief finally hit her and sent her into the bottomless abyss of despair?

 _What a waste…_

"Let me ask you one thing…" Her answer will decide her fate. If he felt like there was no chance for her to get out of this slump, he'll kill her right here, right now. "Why did you do as I asked? At that moment, you obviously could have pushed that biter onto Micah and gotten your satisfaction, so why didn't you?"

The Native grimaced slightly.

 _Finally, a sign of life._

"…Does it matter?"

Her voice was raspy and as dull as the air in this small, dank cell. Her earlier arrogance and fierceness seemed like a far away dream. A trick of the mind. Who would have though that that once proud woman who had fought Micah tooth and nail was now reduced to this husk. They seemed like two completely different entities.

"It does to me."

Samara licked her dry, chapped lips. From this distance, the Governor could hear her thirst for water from that one insignificant action. No doubt her insides were working on empty fuel, devouring her fat storage. Awful way she chose to die.

The woman raised her head high and let it hit the wall behind her. There was nothing in her expression that belayed her thoughts.

"I was keeping my options open." She simply said.

The Governor nodded after a minute pause. That was all he needed to know.

* * *

Light footsteps trekked across the open field. Weary of visibility, Daryl and Michonne walked as low as possible, making themselves small in the face of the house before them. It was a farm house, similar in design and color to the dozens they had searched for the past week and a half and all had the same result—either barren of any living soul or occupied by the occasional stray walker.

No sign of life yet.

They hadn't found one single trace of living beings having occupied these houses. They had all been abandoned and ransacked a long time ago.

Time was pressing. With each day without result was one day further away from their lost people and it was beginning to take a toll on them. Even the hard-boiled Michonne was showing signs of physical and mental fatigue, but not Daryl. His new found resolve wouldn't let him snuff the brightly lit torch he carried in his soul. If he had too, he'll carry all these people along with him until they found them.

As they neared the house, they could discern no sound from it. They had scouted the margins of the house's terrain for nearly an hour before venturing forward, apprehensive of any human occupants. But, like before, the building appeared abandoned.

Daryl opened the door for Michonne to walk in first. His rifle was better suited to cover the short distance fighter. If anything came up he could shoot it from his long range and let Michonne deliver the finishing blow.

Easing into the house, they could hear nothing but the wind's mournful howl. A bead of sweat rolled down to his chin as they entered the living and kitchen, each taking one room, but there was nothing to worry as both equally were devoid of life.

Michonne eyes found bloodstains on the living room floor. Not a large quantity but enough to be noticed.

Signaling the hunter, he silently inspected the spatter. It wasn't old judging by its context and color, probably a week or more. Someone had been here, but they hadn't had the mind to clean the blood.

With a thoughtful frown, he mouthed to the sword-wielder—recent.

Michonne's eyes narrowed and she silently looked towards the ceiling. The hunter understood. There might be people upstairs.

Weapons ready, they investigated.

The steps were shoddy, creaking at every step. The duo had to climb at a snail's pace, fearful of disturbing the peace of the house in case anyone resided on the upper level.

There weren't that many rooms, just three. Carefully, they inspected each and every one only to find no heartbeat. But their poignant eyes saw the little things—the disturbed beds, the clothes strewn around and bags of half-eaten junk food.

It confirmed it. Someone had lived here recently.

"I'll go downstairs. There was another door near the back exit. Gonna check it out." Daryl spoke in a whisper, superstitious of the house's uninhibited image. "You look around here. See if you can find anythin'."

Michonne nodded and got to work.

It was amazing how well the two worked. Unlike some of the others, the two of them could function in total silence, guiding themselves by signals and body language alone. This was a feat Daryl had only been able to accomplish with Samara and Rick. After Michonne had calmed down from her anger she had stuck to his side like a baby chick. He knew why—out of all of them he had the most experience in recognizing tracks and finding lost people. She was simply following the best chance they had in finding Samara.

He didn't begrudge her. He welcomed her company because it kept him on his toes and she didn't slow him down. The woman was just as worried as him for their lost friend.

 _Friend?_

Opening the door, he found himself face to face with a pair of stairs leading towards the basement. Below it was dark and Daryl searched the walls for the light switch. He wasn't about to waltz down there without a visual.

As light illuminated the dark cellar, Daryl carefully descended the stairs. From his position he could see that the cellar was just as empty, but his eyes zeroed on something that made his skin crawl.

Blood.

Approaching the support beam, he crouched low and like the stains above, they were a week or so old. The wooden beam also had the ruby color smeared across it right near the bottom. Settling his rifle down, Daryl sat with his back to the beam and crossed his wrists at the back. They were more or less near the position where the blood was.

Someone had been tied here.

His heart did a leap. Was this it?

Upstairs, Michonne looked through the rooms for anything that could indicate Samara or Oscar had been there, but there was nothing. This looked like a house that had been occupied for a long time, months even, but now it was deserted. Some of the food left had become rotten and a thin coat of dust settled over the clothes and bed sheets. Whoever had lived here hadn't been home in a while. Why was that, she wondered.

As she entered the last room, Michonne found a large duffel bag on the floor behind the bed. Her eyes narrowed as she recognized the gun barrels sticking out. Picking up the bag, she settled it on the bed. Guns of all sizes were inside, not many but enough for several people.

Her hands froze.

Underneath the weapons was a leather harness worn across the chest with several holsters for guns.

Michonne's eyes widened. She knew that chaffed leather. Picking it up, he fingers shook over it as she inspected it with her heart in her throat. Without question, this was Samara's. It had the exact modifications and there was that smug inscription on it, something Samara had written in permanent marker in nostalgic humor of a movie she loved—'Bad motherfucker'.

Michonne looked around the room in a frenzy. Where were they?

The mattress was thrown off. Michonne looked underneath the bed, underneath the clothes. When she opened the wardrobe, her fingers went limp and they fell from the handles.

There, suspended and hanging lifeless, were a familiar crossbow and compound bow assorted with a quiver full of arrows.

While Michonne stumbled across her revelation, Daryl stepped outside through the front door. He was looking for tracks and he came across several near the house. Men and woman alike had walked the dirt road judging by the boot sizes. There were even a few cigarette buds strewn around just as old as the blood on the floor. They had had a car from the tire marks and now he knew that wherever those people disappeared it had been via a car and not running for their lives.

Daryl sighed as he looked in the distance. This reminded him so much of Hershel's farm that it hurt. The only thing missing was the RV and the tents. If things had been different, they could have had a good run at that farm. They would have been isolated from the world with their own crops and animals.

However anyone looked at it, Daryl still thought of that time as one of the most peaceful in this new world. He didn't have to wake up to walkers jilting the metal fence with that desperation typical of them. He didn't have to worry about food when they had it at their disposal or just a few miles away in the woods. It was…different from the prison. Good or bad, in some ways he preferred it over the boxed in, concrete building. But all in all, the prison was a much better choice to reside—

Something caught his attention.

In the distance, there was a dark patch on the ground. Carefully approaching it, Daryl was surprised to find that it had been the remains of a cremation. Someone's body had been burnt here—a man's judging from its height and width. The hunter coughed and covered his mouth and nose. While the fire may have extinguished a long time ago, the charred stench hadn't left the cadaver entirely. Whoever had lived here hadn't even taken the precaution to burn the body entirely. The flesh might be burnt beyond repair, but he could still see patches of tender meat and bone peaking out in some place.

Daryl spat as he searched the cadaver for any signs of its identity. Nothing. The face was burnt beyond recognition and the clothes either burnt from the fire or melted onto the flesh and molded with it.

—Who had this person been? How did he die?

"Daryl!"

The hunter turned swiftly with his rifle at the ready. Eyes set in stone he searched for the threat but could only see Michonne on the second story window, waving him inside. She disappeared the next moment and Daryl rushed towards the house, forgetting about the unfortunate bastard on the ground.

Michonne wouldn't have yelled like that if it hadn't been important.

With his heart in his throat, Daryl all but climbed two steps at a time in his mad rush. He stopped in the threshold, his breath whizzing and cold sweat pouring down his face as his eyes adjusted to the room and Michonne.

Silent gasp.

His heart dropped into his feet.

In the woman's hand was a crossbow.

Tentatively approaching her like a frightened child, he took the weapon back and felt its familiar, comforting weight. This was _his_. This crossbow was his weapon, no doubt about it. Daryl almost jumped in joy at the reunion with his old companion, but it was short lived as he noticed the compound bow on the bed.

 _Samara._

"They were here."

Michonne gravel voice had his heart compress in despair. Blood, a burnt corpse, and no sign of life for quite a while.

They had been too late.

* * *

The Governor looked over the model town and thought of the possible changes he could do. They needed more space, expand Woodbury but for that to happen, this town had to be secure first. It would be a waste in fighting for more room when they had no means in protecting the people. He had to speak with Merle about the possibility of expanding the fenced area.

Rustle.

Milton sat at his desk overlooking some papers with a deep seated frown. A tinge of disgust made its appearance every now and then in reaction to what he was reading.

"Governor…What are you trying to do?" The man's pale eyes held a gripping worry. "This plan of yours for the fights is like a twisted game. You've set up fights man against man and they're all death matches. Dani's crew versus our people. Even with the others that have fought, you never did anything like this. Most of the them were mock fights so the prisoner could live longer."

"It's not a game, it's a tournament." His voice took one a distant tone, almost musing to himself. "A hundred days of slaughter…"

The other's man's confusion was almost palpable.

"Well, not like it's going to be that long." He assured the fearful man, although it didn't seem to placate him in the slightest. "I don't have the manpower for that. Two weeks, that's all. Enough to appease everyone for a long time."

"If I told you that this is completely barbaric and immoral, would you stop this tournament?"

His indifferent look was his answer.

"Not everyone here in Woodbury craves blood." Milton tried to reason, but it was useless. The Governor had already set up his mind to it, but it didn't stop the other from trying. It was somewhat amusing to see Milton so flustered and concerned for the human plight. "There are parents with children—"

The man scoffed. A weak excuse. "Did you see them yesterday? I could practically feel their blood-lust on my tongue. And yes, those parents that you are talkin' about were there among the crowd, cheerin' on." He could still vividly recall his people's reaction to Samara's victory. It had been like a stone thrown in calm waters, ripples upon ripples surging forward. He knew that underneath it all that civility and friendliness, people wanted to taste the forbidden fruit. "We all on different levels crave blood, even you."

Milton grimaced at the indignancy. "Death and violence aren't the answer, Philip. They can't be a substitute for peace."

"Why not? The Romans did it. They kept the people content during peace with staged battles. People, animals, what have you. Barely any riots."

"That was two-thousand years ago, those were different times. Very few had a degree of education, the rest had no idea what day of the week it was much less know how to spell it. They were ignorant people."

"And you really think times have changed?" He scoffed, knowing better. "The people that lived here, some of them have never even left this town. They don't know anythin' of the outside world except what they saw on TV. Heh…" He smiled derogatorily as an unpleasant memory assaulted him. "I was one of them once. Not anymore, though. This Judgment Day changed all that. I'm no longer blind."

"Sometimes…" Milton's voice was so low and despondent that the Governor had to strain himself to hear it. "I really believe that you view every one of us as just ants in your aquarium, moving around at you behest and at any moment you could just tip the glass and end us all. Not because we did anything wrong, but just because you wanted to."

The man's analysis surprised him. While he himself could see the resemblance he hadn't thought others could see it also.

"Do you really think I'm that much of a monster?"

Did Milton, out of all people, really think that of him? That he was a cruel master with no conscious?

Hesitation.

"Forget it." Milton sighed as he took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "It's just a silly thought. I'm tired. I'm not thinking straight."

"You spend too much time around the dead, Milton."

"Yeah, I think they're starting to affect me." Placing back his glasses, Milton looked at him anew, but the Governor could still see the mental exhaustion just creeping behind those iris. "What about Samara? She hasn't been in my lab in two days. Is she still feeling down?"

"More or less."

Milton's frown deepened. It seemed the lone man actually formed some sort of attachment to the sour woman. The Governor wasn't displeased by it, he actually approved of it. It would do the man good to speak to others that weren't dead or dying.

"Are you going to kill her?"

The Governor looked over the window in contemplation. He was still unsure.

* * *

Samara hissed as Stevens poked and prodded her bruises. She was recuperating nicely from her fight two days ago, but her disposition remained the same—unresponsive, silent and stared blankly at everything and anything.

"Doc, can't you talk to the big man and tell him that this bitch is a lost cause?"

Stevens sighed at the man's vulgar language. While he himself was no stranger to it, there was a time and place for it and now wasn't that time.

"She's not dead yet, Merle."

Merle apparently was Samara's guard for the day. To be truthful, he preferred Martinez to this lumbering brute.

"Shit." He spat, hatefully. "We're just waistin' supplies on a corpse."

"They're my supplies, not yours." The doctor's temper was starting to rise, distracting him from his work on his patient. "If the Governor wants her alive then she's gonna stay alive until he says otherwise."

"Fuckin' hell, you're a waste of time!"

In anger, Merle threw a bedpan and it crashed into the wall, startling Alice who was writing up some reports a distance away. Even Samara crawled out of her stupor for a second before the lights shut off in her eyes.

"Don't you throw temper tantrums here, Merle!" This time, Stevens couldn't ignore the frustrated man and barked back more authoritatively. He didn't need this racket right now. This was supposed to be a tranquil place for healing. "Take it outside if you can't control yourself!"

Merle dropped back down in his chair and sulked, throwing evil glances at the catatonic woman. If she would only just die…

Stevens drew in a deep breath to calm himself. He needed his hands steady not shaking from suppressed anger. He swore out of everybody, Merle was the only one capable of destabilizing him to this degree. He was usually a very composed man.

"Samara, I'm gonna give you painkillers for the soreness. Now, I'm reluctant to give you anythin' strong considerin' I've seen the way you chew your pills. I've only seen that sort of behavior in addicts and I strongly believe you were one at some point in your life."

"Really?" Merle piped up with a sly grin, forgetting his present resentment. "What's your poison, sweetheart? Oxy, Doxy, morphine, methadone?"

"Quiet, Merle." Stevens returned his attention back to Samara who was now looking at him with those vacant eyes that put him on edge. "But considerin' the situation, anythin' weaker would just prolong your agony."

He placed the pill in her open palm and gave her a glass of water.

"This is the last time. Ibuprofen will be your only option from here on out."

"She ain't gonna survive till tomrrow." Merle spat as he watched Samara mechanically swallow the pill. "She's already got the noose ready."

Merle wouldn't sugarcoat it. He knew that look, had seen it before in people just before they took the long way down. He just had to sit back and wait for her to finally realize what her only escape was.

"Fuck off, Merle! If you don't have anythin' useful to say, stay quiet!" Stevens' face was red with fury. He knew Merle was a bastard but this was taking it too far. He faced the woman once again, ignoring the feral man. "I know how it feels like. It's a vast emptiness that sucks the livin' breath out of you. It's ugly and despairing, but you can't give in to it."

Samara blinked owlishly.

"Why not?" Her voice came out raspy with disuse.

"Because you shouldn't give up so easily." The man wholeheartedly believed that the woman would overcome this. She just needed some support to understand that she wasn't alone. "Fight it. It might not look like it right now, but there is life to be made anew here. You can't let the dead pull you down. If you want, I can help you through these tough times. Nobody should be alone."

Samara twitched. Those awful dead eyes settled into a deep glare and that raspy voice turned a few degrees colder as she all but practically hissed.

"Keep your fucking advice to yourself because I don't want it."

Stevens' shoulders sagged as Merle let out a guffaw of triumph. "Guess she's made up her mind, doc."

"That's all for today." The man took off his glasses and rubbed his tired features. "You can take her, Merle."

Like a gazelle, Merle sprung from his chair and took a hold of Samara, not in the least bit gentle.

"Come on, Tonto. Governor wants you workin'. You might be cozyin' up to the ol' Reaper, but until then you'll feed the geeks."

* * *

Groan. Slurp.

Samara watched vacantly as the walkers gleefully devoured Micah's flesh. She knew this time she was feeding them Micah because her guard, Merle, had joyfully informed her in high hopes of inciting disgust.

He barely even got a blink out of her.

The Native felt so heavy she could barely stand on both legs. They felt like jelo and they shook slightly, giving her the bizarre sensation of toppling over at any moment. Aside from the bruises from the fight, there wasn't anything physically wrong with her, it was her soul that was in turmoil. Samara hadn't expected Daryl's death to hit her so hard. It had been two days already and she still felt like the world had crumbled to dust. Funny how one person's death could bring her to such a sorry state. It was almost laughable.

But Samara wasn't laughing. She couldn't even cry anymore. Her grief was now a silent and devastating one.

—She _hated_ this feeling.

Feeling her long dried up tears still coursing down her cheeks, the heaviness of the paths left behind as if her skin was sinking in, every muscle in her face unable to retain even one single expression…It was pure agony.

Samara chucked the next piece of meat with more force than necessary. While on the outside she was as dull as ever, her insides were a different matter. From that pool of misery sprung forth an ugly and horribly contorted fury—Pining over some guy she had only been fucking was ridiculous. It hadn't been like Daryl had popped her cherry or anything among those lines, so there was no need for the dramatics and yet, she couldn't climb out of this hole of depression no matter what the practical part of her mind yelled. This is exactly what she had feared from the beginning of this strange affair. Him dying on her and her reaction to it. Samara had thought that she could have handled it logically, but she had been _dreadfully_ wrong. It all spiral into a complete emotional disaster.

It made her wonder in the quiet hours of the night if Daryl had meant more to her than just an itch to scratch.

 _Did he?_

Samara tsked, and the cynical part of her squashed her sentimentality to fine grain.

Did it matter anymore? He was dead. 'What if's' never helped anybody in the long run.

The walkers snapped their teeth at her. She had stopped feeding them, lost in thought, and they were getting anxious. They still had a lot of room left in their rotten stomachs for seconds.

Sigh. _How did this happen?_

Looking at their milky eyes and outstretched hands, Samara felt a dark pull towards them. It was like they were inviting her to join their gluttonous feast, devoid of thought or emotion. In a blink of an eye, she could just disappear. A droplet in a vast ocean, nothing would be left of her.

Their macabre moans and groans beguiled—

"Do it."

Merle rough voice felt like a stone being thrown into a calm sea.

Samara blinked hard and assessed the situation with a harsh breath. She had unconsciously taken several steps towards the monsters with no intention of giving them Micah. She had simply acted on her subconscious thoughts, propelled by dark delusions.

"Just one itty bitty step and I'll have a reason to shoot you dead." His voice changed almost hypnotically, preying on the woman's moment of inexplicable insanity and broken vulnerability. "Then all that pain will just wash away and you won't have to ever hurt again."

What would it be like? If she just took those steps and gave herself over to oblivion?

Her hand rose slowly, shakingly.

Sweat poured down her forehead and she licked her dry lips as Merle's words echoed through her mind.

Her fingers coiled until only one finger remained extended vertically.

–Her middle one.

Merle spat and cursed.

 _Like hell I'll do what you say, redneck._

No, Samara had no thoughts of suicide even if life looked bleak at the moment. This feeling of emptiness and sadness too shall pass. After her husband had died, Samara had went through an even worse patch. If she hadn't killed herself then, there was no chance of it happening now over someone that she hadn't even loved. Samara will survive Daryl's death. It was inevitable.

In the end, that was the only thing anyone could in this mad world. Moving forward meant life. If you stopped to let the demons overtake you then you were to weak to walk upon this earth. Samara will never forget Daryl. He'll always have a place in her memories, but she couldn't let his death drag her down.

She will _not_ allow it.

Perhaps…once she got out of here, she'll find a dog to keep her company. Another Alistair would be a calming transition.

But for the moment, she just had to focus on her own survival. It will take some time before Samara could function normally, both physically and emotionally, but until then she'll rely on her shrewdness and cruelty. It will be like before meeting Rick. That total selfishness and indifference towards others that hid itself deep in her being will rise to the surface once more and dictate her actions. The times of the lone wanderer shall return.

Samara threw another piece of meat, her eyes infinitely more sharper than before.

This was the only way. Pragmatism and taciturnity were her only options.

And she _excelled_ at these.

* * *

Multiple pairs of eyes of different shapes and colors gazed before the burnt body, all experiencing different degrees of distress.

"Do you think this is…?" The blonde one with pale blue eyes bit her lip worriedly.

"It could be anybody. It ain't Oscar." Unconsciously, Axel hugged himself tightly. He didn't want to believe something so awful.

"But if it were one of their own why—"

"We don't know who this is, period." Rick interrupted Tyreese before he could plant anymore ideas into the other's already horrified psyches. "Look everyone, the most important thing here is that we found their hidin' place. We know where they will be when they return."

"This place looks deserted."

Rick's jaw locked tight. Michonne was right. The house had been left untouched for some time now and he wasn't sure why. Any number of things could have happened that delayed the occupants' return.

"Could they have abandoned it?" Axel's fingers sunk into the material of his hoodie, his eyes unwilling to leave the charred remains.

"Not with all their supplies here they didn't."

Axel glowered slightly. If Sasha wanted to ridicule him, she had picked the wrong time. "I mean, could they have abandoned it in a hurry? Like somethin' happened that made them run, leavin' everythin' behind."

"It's possible." Tyreese rubbed his tired jaw. "But if walkers had driven them out there would have been something left behind. A few stragglers, some destruction to the property, footprints which Daryl would have found. And if people tried to take over then why is everything left untouched? This place just looks like they went on a supply run and never came back."

It was on all their minds. Each with their own idea of what happened. Walkers could have driven them out, they could have died somewhere else, damning Oscar and Samara along…or this corpse before them was Oscar and Samara was missing, probably never to be seen again along with the attackers.

"What if they're not comin' back?" Andrea verbalized their fears.

"They have to." Daryl crushed that train of thought as he readjusted his crossbow. "No one in their right mind would leave food, guns and ammo behind."

"Unless they were kept from coming back." Everyone looked to Michonne. Her eyes were narrowed as she contemplated over the dreary situation. "What do we know about these people? They took Oscar and Samara to fight. Fight who? Where? Not here apparently."

"What if this group took Samara and Oscar someplace else? I've seen dog fights before and they usually ain't somewhere public."

"Does it look like anyone should fear the police anymore?" Sasha scoffed at Axel's words.

"No, Axel ain't wrong. That seems the case here." Rick understood Axel's implications. "Oscar and Samara were taken somewhere else to fight. A town maybe?"

"Or another house."

It was then that it dawned on everyone.

"We're back at square one." Andrea aggravatingly raked her fingers through her hair. "Goddammit!"

Even after they made such a huge discovery, they still had nothing to guide themselves to their missing friends. It was just one obstacle after another.

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves." Rick couldn't have them lose hope. If they did, then those two were really lost. "We still don't know what happened here, but I intend to find out."

Dawn was closing in fast. They didn't have time to argue, but to plan ahead.

"We're gonna post people here as lookouts around the clock. Take shifts in pairs. Sasha and Tyreese, you're first. If those people come back, don't do anythin' stupid. You wait and you watch. Their strength, their numbers, everythin' and anythin' you catalog." He looked everyone in the eye, not giving an inch to despair. There was still hope. "Sooner or later, we're gonna have to confront these people and I'd rather not go in unprepared. We'll get our people back, even if we have to kill."

Daryl's grip on his crossbow tightened. Hanging onto his back was a compound bow and quiver full of arrows—a constant reminder that their owner was still missing.

He will not give into anguish again.

* * *

Samara looked over the old man nestled on the bed with mild curiosity.

After she had finished feeding the walkers, Merle had brought her to Milton's instead of taking her back to her cell. Suited her just fine. She wanted to keep her hands and mind busy, lest they venture to darker territories. She had to recover fast, even if it was a forced one because time was of the essence. Nobody was going to wait for her to naturally get over her grief before she could escape.

Merle hadn't remained like Martinez used to, to her suspicion and mild relief. Perhaps that was because the Governor was also present, speaking with the sickly man in hushed tones. She hadn't seen him since this morning, and even then it was briefly. Samara had thought he had come to her to decide her fate judging by his curious question, but here she was…still living and breathing.

She wondered with a grain of salt what this man had in store for her. What his next trial would be like…

Perhaps this was the reason she was here in Milton's lab? The man on the bed looked on the verge of death. Was she supposed to kill him? What were they trying to accomplish?

"Mr. Coleman, this is Samara." The Governor gave her a brief glance. "Milton will bring you up to speed." He then leaned and whispered something to this Mr. Coleman, his hands tightening warmly around the older man's.

Cynicism was as hospitable as a cold winter as Samara watched the 'friendly' interaction with a doubtful eye. She wondered how much of it was real and how much was just a ploy on the Governor's part. She didn't buy his 'good guy' act, not after she realized _what_ this man was.

On a side note, Samara did respect him for never breaking the mask he wore so perfectly. He played his act so thoroughly that he even had his own people fooled. She wondered what would they do if they saw his real face—the one with dead eyes and lack of any human mercy.

The Governor shook the man's hand one last time before leaving his side. The smile dropped once his eyes were on her, a solemnity taking over instead. One of his hands settled over the handle of a knife he kept at his belt.

Samara's muscles locked.

He took out the knife.

"I'm giving this to you."

 _Huh?_

Samara stared dumbly at the offered knife. She hadn't expected this turn in events. For all intents and purposes, she had believed he would stab her right then and there.

"Why?"

"In case this experiment goes wrong." _Experiment?_ "I need you to protect Milton from himself. He can get overzealous with his projects to the point of foolish."

Samara's eyes returned to the knife. It glinted so smoothly in the dim light of the room. Almost invitingly.

"You're giving _me_ …a knife."

The implications were clear.

"I'm going to trust you with this." He flipped the knife and held it by the blade, offering her the handle. " _Don't_ disappoint me."

The glint in his eyes had Samara take a hold of it without further ado. It hadn't been malicious or even domineering, but expectant of her next move.

Samara bit her lip harshly. He was testing her again, the bastard.

"What is this?" Samara asked after the Governor left her alone with Milton and the dying man.

"Could you cue up the first song on the record?"

Looking around in confusion, Samara spotted an old gramophone. It was smooth to the touch and lacking in dust. Milton had been thoughtfully taking care of it.

"On my mark."

Samara was surprised at the unexpected hollow sound. She watched in confusion as Milton circled a bowl with a wooden tool, producing a sound similar to fingering the rim of empty wine glasses.

The sound reverberated as Milton stopped circling it. He nodded towards the gramophone and Samara placed the needle on the record. The song was unknown, but it sounded just as old as the phonograph itself. Probably from the black and white movie era.

"My name is Milton Mamet. Please raise your right hand off the bed if you recognize any of the following statements to be true. Your name is Michael Coleman." Shaking and with barely any strength, the old man raised his hand. "You were married to Betty Coleman." Again. "Your children were Michael Jr. and Emily." Again.

Samara sat on a stool and followed this slightly melancholic show with only the lightest trace of interest. The old record grated on her ears, not because of the woman singing it—she had a pleasant voice—but the lyrics…

 _All I did was wonder how your arms could be,_

 _And it happened, and it happened,_

 _And it happened to me._

—She wanted to vomit.

The old man whispered something to Milton before settling back on his pillow, exhausted.

"What did he say?"

"He asked if I could keep it playing while we wait."

 _Oh joy…_

"Milton, what am I supposed to do here?" She asked as the reflection of the knife's blade shined over her face.

"After Mr. Coleman passes, we'll restrain him. He'll reanimate. I'll ask the questions again, record his responses." He gave her a blank stare, but Samara could see the despondency behind it. "I need you to end the subject's reanimated state."

Samara nodded. So, she was supposed to be a guard dog then.

"I've been trying to determine whether trace memory and human consciousness exist after the subject has transformed, but I had no baseline to work off of till now." His eyes laid over the slumbering man. "Prostate cancer. We didn't have the resources to treat him, so he volunteered to be the test subject. He's a remarkable man."

"You two close?"

"We spent a lot of time together. The song, the singing bowl, the questions. We've done that a few dozen times." He pointed to the memorabilia strewn around. "These are cues that will hopefully linger in his unconscious mind even after he's died."

Samara scoffed. What has this man been smoking?

"There is no unconscious mind, Milton. When they turn, they become monsters. That's all. Whoever they once were is gone."

He looked at her pointedly.

"We'll see."

Samara frowned. He didn't believe her in the slightest, and he even looked at her down his nose for a moment.

 _Heh…_ This man had no clue. He was just as ignorant as any other person.

"You haven't seen the transformation before, have you?"

"No." He answered curtly.

"Well, you're in for one hell of a show." A horrid smirk contorted her lips, giving off ominous vibes. "Sometimes, the body spasms and twists to extreme positions. It always funny watching it. Like a fish out of the water."

Milton blinked rapidly, flustered. "I don't see how that can be entertaining to watch."

Samara simply continued on grinning.

Coleman let out a final, breathy sigh.

Milton checked his pulse immediately and frowned. The man known as Coleman was no more.

With a heavy exhale, they began restraining the corpse. It wasn't hard to notice the tremor in Milton's hands and Samara took the restraints out of his grip. Not because she wanted to spare him the distress, but because she didn't want him to mess it up and leave the leather straps loose.

Tightly bound, the only thing they could do now was wait. Milton pressed a button on a timer and Samara watched as the numbers shifted with each second. The maximum Samara had waited for a human to turn was two hours. The minimum, fifteen seconds. Which one will it be today?

The song had ended a while ago but neither had noticed.

Milton busied himself with his tea, the jitters never really having left him. He wouldn't look Samara in the eye, but she knew. He was afraid. He was practically emanating it through every pore in his body.

"Did you see my fight with Micah?"

He turned to her partially before shaking his head.

"Too bad."

"Why did you do it?"

"Because he had to die."

Simple and to the point.

Milton sighed wearily. "Nobody deserves to die…"

Samara snorted in disdain. "Clearly, you haven't seen what is behind those protective walls of yours. Or better yet…what is _inside_."

Pale khaki connected with olive green.

For a fraction of a second, Samara had seen the understanding within those eyes.

 _You can see it too, can you?_

His eyes then took on a protective sheen masked with confusion.

 _But you just don't want to admit it._

Twitch.

All eyes diverted to Coleman.

Again, his shoulder spasmed. And then his arm. And then his body. It wasn't anything violent, just small jolts and joints contorting and bones popping. Even with the small gestures, it still made Milton swallow thickly in nervousness. Beads of sweat pooled at his hairline and Samara could see his skin prickle with fright.

 _Heh…_

Coleman's eyes opened milky white.

Not wasting even a moment, Milton quickly retrieved his bowl and begins the same process as the one before, producing that tingling sound. He nodded towards Samara to play the tune.

The lady's pleasant voice echoed through the horn.

Placing the bowl down, Milton licked his dry lips as sweat poured down his face.

"My name is Milton Mamet. Please raise your right hand off the bed if you recognize any of the following statements to be true. Your name is Michael Coleman." No movement. "You were married to Betty Coleman." He shows it the picture of Coleman's wife. Again, no reaction. "Your children were Michael Jr. and Emily." This time the beast curled its fingers over the covers. "Did you see that? He responded!"

"It's nothing."

It had been just the walker stretching its limbs, nothing more.

"No, he can't raise his hand! It's the angle. I want to try again without the restraints."

"Hell no."

"We may have tethered his consciousness. We have to try!"

Samara's frown deepened into a glare. "Are you insane? I said _no_."

"I know what happens if the subject comes for us!"

"As soon as we pull the restraints, he'll lunge and the only thing you'll accomplish is replace him in that bed."

Refusing to listen, Milton began to frenziedly untie undead Coleman's right hand. Samara gripped the knife tightly as she prepared for the walker's lunge.

"My name is Milton Mamet. Please raise your right hand—"

As predicted, the walker grabbed Milton and brought him towards its open maw.

All of this happened in the span of a few seconds. And in those few seconds from the walker grabbing Milton to its approaching teeth, Samara deliberated heavily.

She was undecided on how to act, even at the sight of Milton's impending doom. The walker could just kill Milton and she could run for it and escape this place. There would be nothing holding her back. But how far could she run before she was found? No doubt the Governor hadn't left them as unsupervised as it had seemed. And the moment she was caught, what then? She will die a most painful death, most likely dragged out by that twisted man. And if Merle got his hands on her…

 _It isn't time yet._

With a growl of weary frustration, Samara stabbed the walker in the head.

Milton remained frozen as he had just avoided Death's excruciating embrace by a few inches. Undead Coleman fell back onto the bed, never to move again.

With stiff movements, Milton rose from the bed and took his pictures and documents with him. His grip wasn't as strong as before and his gaze was faraway.

 _Shell-shock._

"I—I think I'd like to record my findings while they're fresh."

"That was stupid." Samara said as she calmed her ragged breath. The small spike of adrenaline had been like a drug. "You could have died."

Milton busied himself with his papers, intent on ignoring Samara.

"Are you listening?" She walked towards him with brisk steps. "Hey!"

Harshly, Samara grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him until his papers fell out of his hands and his focus snapped to her. His pupils were dilated out of control and Samara could see the deep rooted fear and unbearable failure, all mixed with a healthy does of shock.

 _Good._

"This is what happens when you get bit. There's no memory recovery. This is not Pavlov's dog we're talking about who'll drool at the sound of a bell. That thing is _dead_ , in all manners except for a part in its brain that keeps it craving human flesh without end. There is nothing human about it." She let go of him as she recovered her breath. "You can't save them, Milton."

Milton settled on a nearby stool, his hands once again shaking. He took his glasses off and wiped the tears of frustration away.

"There is no turning back from this." Her eyes landed on the cadaver with no emotion. Apathy at its finest. "We're all going to meet this fate. Accept that fact."

She had a long time ago. But that didn't mean they had to race towards that finish line. Samara was taking her sweet time until the line could even be seen on the horizon and it was nowhere near now.

* * *

Again, she had been surprised. Instead of being returned to her cell after the obvious failure of an experiment, Samara was taken through the main street by the ever grave Shumpert and brought over to a two story house. The person that opened the door to the top floor didn't even surprise her. Of course he would whisk her away in the darkness of night. But what did surprise her was the dinner table abundant with mouthwatering food.

To anyone else having been held captive for almost two weeks, this might have seemed and smelled like heaven, but for Samara this was culinary hell. The food looked disgusting in her eyes and it smelled like rotten meat. She knew it was the depression messing up with her senses, but she couldn't look at the food without gagging.

"Are we on a date?" Samara asked sarcastically.

Governor smirked as he poured wine into two glasses. "You're attractive I'll give you that, but you're too aggressive for my tastes."

"You like them obedient, don't you?"

"I like them _feminine_."

Shumpert handed his leader the knife and the man had simply sheathed it, without even looking at the blade's state. Samara had cleaned it before Shumpert had taken it away, leaving no blood behind.

Taking his visual cue from the Governor's pointed look, Shumpert took off Samara's cuffs and left the apartment. Left alone, Samara now felt more vulnerable than ever. She felt naked and powerless in front of this predator who was watching her closely, no doubt assessing her every move.

He pointed towards the empty chair as he settled in his own.

Samara sat and avoided looking at her plate, focusing on the man instead.

"It's grilled salmon with fried vegetables. A rarity these days. I kept them for special occasions and I figured this is a good a day as any. Enjoy."

"I'm not hungry." The smell made her want to drive her fork into her eye.

A flash of anger.

" _Eat."_

It wasn't a suggestion but a command. He would force it down her throat if he had to, Samara thought.

Any other day, the taste of salmon would have given her taste buds an orgasm, but not it was pure torture. It tasted like ash on her tongue and the man before her was forcing her to eat this monstrosity.

"You need your strength. I can't have you deteriorating into a skeleton."

"Why do you care?" She asked hatefully between dry heaves as she slowly swallowed the meat. She knew the man could see her struggle but still he insisted like the happy sadist he was.

"You're still of use."

"Do you always dine and smooth talk your prisoners?" Samara had to wipe the tears that pooled on her lower lashes from the strain of forcing herself to eat.

"No." The Governor had no difficulty enjoying his dinner as he ate and drank. Every time he chewed his food, Samara could hear it ten times louder and it gave her vertigo from all the squishes and slurps. "I still don't know what to think of you. You're definitely a survivor, a resilient one by what I've observed. I've met people like you before. Those that think they can't be tamed, but they always manage to get in line when they land in my hands."

"Is that a proposition?"

His eyes narrowed reproachfully. "Don't get too conceited. Most of the people like you I've killed because they are, more than anythin', a pain in the ass. But…" He sighed as his eyes glared at her with something akin to slight defeat. "I recognize value when I see it. You know how to fight and from what I've seen in the arena, you use your brains more than your brawn. My people liked you, they even cheered for you, imagine that."

"That doesn't make me happy." She didn't give a rat's ass for his people's opinion of her.

"Of course not, but it makes _me_ happy and that's all that matters." He wiped the corner's of his mouth and took a sip from his wine. "What I'm trying to say is I have use of people of your caliber within my ranks."

Silence.

"Heh."

Samara began chuckling in her seat. It was a low, derisive one devoid of any amusement. She was laughing at herself and her situation.

"So this is why you gave me that knife. You were testing me." The laughter abruptly ended with a sneering scowl. "You're a bastard."

"How so?" The Governor was not shaken by her expression of hatred.

"Because you knew there were chances I would just stab your friend and try to escape. Either that, or I turned the knife on myself. You gambled on a woman's fucked up psyche." Samara leaned back in her chair. This man really was the Devil. "You're either very perceptive for foreseeing this outcome or you're just plain thoughtless."

A small, knowing smile slowly morphed onto his lips.

"True, I did take a chance, but I was more than sure of the outcome. As I've said, you're not a stupid woman. You must have realized that even if you killed Milton, there would have been no way for you to keep on livin', much less escape. I would have killed you. Made you suffer for it first. And as for killin' yourself…" He scoffed as if the notion offended his intelligence. "You're not the type to take the easy way out."

He could see right through her. The man knew with what kind of person he was dealing with just as Samara did herself with him.

"To be truthful, that is partially why I didn't stab Milton, but…he was just so _frightened_. Like a kid seeing the Boogie Man for the first time." In that split second, Milton had seen death and it had chilled him to the bone. To Samara, it had been nothing short of watching ignorant prey about to get devoured. "I saved him because I _pitied_ him. He was no more than a mutt about to be put down in my eyes."

"It's called _empathy_."

Samara snorted, shaking her head in incredulity. "Empathizing with my captors. This is Stockholm Syndrome at its finest."

"It means you're starting to integrate among us. That's good."

"How is that good for _me_?" She snapped, frustrated with his unruffled mood.

"Because you have nowhere else to be." His voice exploded like thunder, silencing any further hostility from her. "If I let you leave these walls, where will you go? The world is a _large_ , empty place. Surviving by yourself is a difficult task for anyone, no matter how experienced they are. Do you really not see how lucky you are? If things turned out differently you would have shared Micah's fate." He leaned in closer, a winning shine in his eyes. "You can start over fresh. You don't need to be alone, drivin' aimlessly around Georgia. You can have a purpose here."

He was guiding her over to his side. How long had he been planning this? Before or after her proclamation to fight Micah? He knew she was an outsider that could very well just decide one day that she had enough and escape, leaving behind a trail of corpses. But…

Samara wouldn't do that. And he knew that she wouldn't. Corpses only attract attention. Was he just trying to see what she would do? How she will manage to escape his prison? Was this just another test? If it was, Samara was sick to death of them.

"…What's your name?"

He frowned in perplexity. "Why would you need to know that?"

"I like knowing who I'm going to be working for. Governor…" Her lips pursed. "That's a title, not a nickname. What's your _real_ name?"

The man observed her intently. He was reluctant to answer as his lips pursed into a straight line. Why his name was such a mystery she didn't understand. Did that make him less human than he was?

"Phillip." Samara's heart froze as her eyes widened fractionally. "My name's Phillip Blake."

Samara sat there uncomprehending, but out of the recesses of her memory came one simple phrase— _Quid pro quo_. She huffed with a small smile before extending her hand.

"Samara Tsosie."

The man gripped it firmly, his eyes never leaving hers, and shook it.

* * *

Samara looked around the apartment with a keen eye.

"You'll be more comfortable here instead of your old cell. It's not the Four Seasons, but there's a hot shower. Water's limited, so keep it short. We got food, water, fresh clothes."

"I kind of started to like my cell." Although, the prospect of taking a shower delighted her. She hadn't bathed in the past couple of days and she smelled of sweat, blood and antiseptics. She had been surprised the Governor had managed to swallow his food with the rank aroma wafting near him.

"I doubt that."

"Why this place?" She eyed him curiously. She wasn't fooled by this display of generosity. There had to be a catch. "You trust me so much already?"

"No, but I can't have you escorted in and out of the cells every day especially now as my people saw you as the avenged victim. Would be poor management."

Samara scoffed. _Of course._

It really was all just a game to him and she was just another chess piece to be moved around in his favor. Anything that could potentially add to his gain was of significance. A stepping stone. She was that, no more and no less.

"Besides, you'll be closely watched. I'm not givin' you absolute free reign in my town, just enough so you can stretch your legs."

"I'm guessing weapons are out of the question."

He looked at her pointedly. She had to ask?

"Will I still be helping Milton, at least?"

The Governor shrugged indifferently. "He has no qualms with you workin' there. In fact, I think he likes havin' _livin'_ company. Someone he can share his theories and whatnot. The dead, apparently, aren't so receptive."

"Imagine that…" Samara whispered to herself.

"Three days from now we're gonna hold another fight. This time a life and death one. I hope you will attend."

Meaning—you _will_ attend. No questions asked.

Samara was surprised. She hadn't expected that particular detail. The Governor had been rather adamant in no deaths in the arena, but it seemed along with his people's cheers for her victory came a steady change. Was he really prepared to gamble with his soldiers lives?

"Who's fighting?"

"Winchester and Merle. And after that Dani will get his turn."

"Why not have Dani and Winchester kill themselves?" That seemed the most obvious choice and the less problematic.

"That wouldn't be fair to my people. As you said, they need to see justice being dealt."

Where would the fun be if he had the two strangers beat each other to a pulp? Who would the crowd cheer for?

The man never ceased to amaze her, and that wasn't a good thing.

Samara sat on the sturdy mattress as soon as the Governor left. She could wait an hour and then sneak off into the night, but she trusted the Governor's words that she was under watch. He wouldn't leave her out of his sight that easily.

With a worn-out sigh, Samara leaned over her knees and laced her fingers. She felt so exhausted, ready to sleep a thousand years and even then it wouldn't be enough.

How much longer must she feel like this? Her view of the world hadn't changed since she killed Micah. She still felt an oppressive heaviness on her shoulders, trying to push her underneath the surface, but at least she had a goal now. Even through the despairing darkness, Samara could see a small speck of light in the faraway distance.

Dale had been right—it wasn't enough just surviving. People needed a goal to strive towards in these dark times and she had found hers for the time being.

This improvement in habitation was a sign of better days. She was one step closer to her goal now.

Gasp.

Tears pooled at her lower lashes. The memories wouldn't leave her. They clung like a second shadow to her skin, never giving her respite.

 _"Come on bro, it'll be just like old times."_

Samara bit her interlaced fingers to stop the scream of pure rage from coming out. She wanted to destroy this entire room, reduce it all to ash, but she couldn't. She had to be obedient and patient. Play the prisoner turned crony because it was the only way towards freedom.

She was going to get out of here soon. A month max and she's out. With her new abode, now she had the time to plan ahead and soon, the topic of Merle will come into play.

She just has to refrain herself from doing something stupid that could destroy her only chance.


	37. Life on the Outside

It was early morning when Samara stepped out of her new home.

The bright sun and the chirping birds were a nice touch for any start of a new day, but for Samara it was all just another shade of gray. If she had a gun at hand, she would have shot those pesky little birds.

Sleep hadn't come easily to her, if at all. This marked the third day she had functioned without the ability to recharge her batteries. She felt worn down and drained, her vision at times unfocusing without reason.

There were few people on the street and each and every one gave her curious looks, but neither dared to stop and chat. It might be because of the morose/pissed off/half-dead look she temporarily displayed or because of the man following her like a faithful hound. Shumpert was just a distance behind her, matching her steps with extreme precision.

Even through the hazy fog of melancholy, Samara still observed the town before her. Everyone seemed free to walk about without any constraints, except for when the sun went down. It was curfew time then. A precaution against unnecessary accidents or deaths.

The metal gate she had been brought through was where the bulk of the Woodbury guards were stationed. There had to be a weak spot along the fence that she could exploit. The only problem was finding it without arousing suspicion.

"Enjoying life on the outside, sweetheart?"

Samara's skin crawled unpleasantly.

"Not anymore."

Merle chuckled as he matched her slow pace. He seemed as viciously cheerful as ever, that familiar wicked grin in its rightful place.

"I lost a pack of cigarettes on your fight with Micah. Betted that you'd die."

"If it made your life harder, all the better."

That grin took a sharp turn. "You're lucky we're out in broad daylight or else I would've broken your nose. Make it even more crooked than it already is. Call it an improvement."

"Lucky me." Samara hissed.

Go away, her mind chanted. Even if he was Daryl's brother, it still didn't make him anymore endearing than a bag of dog shit on fire.

"You look tame right now, but ol' Merle knows better." He lit himself a cigarette, those _blue_ eyes never leaving her. "I can't wait for the day when you'll try to escape. I'm gonna be the one to come after you and this time, you won't get to live."

"As if that worked out for you in the past, or have you forgotten? How many men do you want to lose this time?"

Dangerous shadows darkened Merle's face.

"Mouthy bitch, ain't ya?" The man hissed threateningly as clouds of smoke coiled around his head. "You might be the Governor's new pet project, but don't think for a second that makes you untouchable. You can always _slip_ and end up bein' geek food."

"Guess I have to watch my step." Samara inhaled deeply. Some of that nicotine odor entered her lungs and it felt like she crushed one of her painkillers and snorted it. She desperately wanted one a cigarette, but couldn't and most importantly, _wouldn't_ ask this man.

It'll be tough from now on without the painkillers Stevens had been supplying her. Those had kept her afloat for the time being, but now she had to settle with vanilla pills that barely had any effect. She had to go on the dry again which was a horrifying thought. At least painkillers made her stay here more bearable.

"I heard you're going to fight Winchester." Samara hugged herself as her skin prickled from the cool morning air. She now wore a fresh set of clothes with was a nice change of pace from her earlier raunchy and ripped clothing. Not to her style, but beggars couldn't be choosers.

Merle grinned, putting aside his anger with her in favor of being reminded of this great news. "I can't wait. Haven't been in a fight in a long time. It's good to get the rust off these bones."

"I hope he beats the shit out of you."

"Now, that ain't nice, sweetheart." The man chuckled, not at all phased by her deadpan sass. "I am gonna be killin' the man that brought you here. How about some support? A peck on the cheek for your knight in shinin' armor?"

Samara grimaced. "I'd rather not catch any flees."

He leaned forward, much closer than she would have liked. She could practically feel his body heat. "Honey, I could have you screamin' if I wanted to. Trust me when I say this, some ladies like the cold, metal thrills." He waved his metal hand, throwing her words back at her. "This ain't just for show."

That grimace turned into a hateful scowl. The only way he would have her screaming was in suffering, not ecstasy.

"No thanks."

"I get it." He retracted, that insufferable smile further aggravating her already agitated mind. "Shacking up with those two women must have steered you towards beaver town. All those cold, lonely nights, huggin' yourselves for warmth. Must have been rug-muncher heaven."

"You've given it some thought, apparently. Maybe even _too_ much." Her eyes thinned shrewdly. "Kept you up at night, did it?"

"You really wanna know?" His smirk turned lewd, his thoughts already transparent from that one leer. "I can go into a _whole_ lot of detail."

"I'd rather vomit."

Merle laughed.

Samara looked at him shrewdly. He was such a polar opposite to his brother and yet, in some regards, they were almost the same. The woman easily understood why Daryl had turned out the way he did. Having a brother like Merle coupled with the shoddy life he had had mustn't have been very nurturing…or educational.

After meeting this man, Samara was glad Daryl had managed to part ways with him. It had given the younger Dixon time to grow and develop in ways he mustn't have been able with Merle in the picture. In short, he became a better man.

"What?" Merle sneered as he noticed her keen stare.

"How the hell did someone like you end up here?"

"That's a long story. I wasn't in the best of shape when the Governor found me 'cause of this." He petted his metal prosthetic with odd affection. "He should have just kept on going, but he didn't."

Samara grunted. "You just don't seem the type to listen to others."

"I ain't, but we all gotta adapt."

The Native wondered what the Governor did to tame such a wild beast. From the others description of Merle, he was the type to march to the beat of his own drum.

"How did that happen?" She pointed at the hand, fully aware of the story but wanting to gouge his reaction.

There was a faraway look about Merle, as if seeing another time and place where Samara had no access to.

"Before Woodbury, I was with a group outside Atlanta. Went on a run in the city when we got cornered in a building. I was left there, cuffed on the roof like an animal because they thought I was too much trouble." He smirked knowingly. "Guess I was. I was high almost all the time and I get rather rowdy when I'm on powder." The grin slipped off his lips faster than it had appeared. "But that ain't no excuse. The people that left me there, I'm gonna find them one day and they're gonna _pay_."

Understandable. Samara would have done the same in his shoes, but this just made her apprehensive of having this man follow her to the prison. If his hatred ran that deep he could cause more trouble than he was worth.

"They could be thousands of miles away. That or dead."

"Nah…They're alive. I can _feel_ it. You can't fool ol' Merle's senses. They're as sharp as a fox's."

"I'm guessing it was your fox-like senses that found us in Geneva."

Merle winked. "That's a secret."

"There was a blizzard." She stressed, needing to know the answer. "How the hell did you find us?"

Merle threw away his now useless cigarette.

"You hid your trails nicely that day." A sly grin gave him the appearance of the fox he spoke off. "You get my respect for that, but I've been in this game _far_ longer than you, honey."

"You should have let it go." Instead of following them and dooming so many others to their deaths.

"You're the ones that shot first, not us."

"Like you weren't going to." Samara spat back, knowing full well that was what had been in his mind.

"Well…I can't lie on that." He chuckled, having been caught red-handed. But that amusement soon disappeared leaving only hard edge. "What happened to your girlfriends?"

Samara shrugged indifferently.

"You're gonna talk one day. You can't keep silent forever."

"If I don't, _somebody_ may find out about our little rendezvous and then it's going to be lights out for both of us." Did he forget the predicament they were in? "Despite recent events, I'm in no rush to die. Are you?"

Merle scoffed and looked away, disgruntled.

"But you are right on one thing." She stopped and came very close to him, more than she would have preferred. Merle watched her guardedly, his metal-hand poised to strike. "We are going to have a talk, a very _introspective_ one. And when that happens, you'll come to my side."

When he learned of Daryl, the man won't be able to say no to her proposition.

"Bitch, the only way I'm ever gonna come to your side is if you use that mouth of yours for somethin' else other than talkin'."

Samara grimaced.

"You're a pig."

Merle smirked.

"Oink-oink."

* * *

Samara sighed. For three hours now she had been writing what Milton dictated with fervor. Another experiment, another theory, another boring new case.

It all felt so repetitive since the outcome would be the same—there was no cure for this plague of undeath.

The man seemed more himself today. After his recent close brush with death, Samara had thought that Milton would remain shaken for a longer period of time, but he appeared more or less fine. There was some tough hide hidden beneath that soft exterior after all.

"Milton, let's take a break. It's three o'clock." She threw the pen away and lounged back in her seat, her hand exhausted. "If I write anymore, my fingers will start bleeding."

"Oh, it's been that long?" He followed the clock in wonder. "I haven't noticed."

"I'm surprised your voice isn't hoarse."

As Samara stretched her stiff joints, she failed to noticed Milton bringing a picnic box.

"I brought lunch." He settled the container on the desk and started taking out its content. "Ham and cheese sandwiches with some salad, tomatoes and cucumbers. Oh, and tea. Although, it's probably cold by now, but I have a portable stove here."

Samara watched as the man neatly arranged plastic plates for both of them with cutlery and ceramic mugs.

"You made lunch…" Her eyes dragged over the food covered in foil before they slid over to the man unaware of his action's significance. "for _both_ of us?"

"Yes. You don't like sandwiches?" He frowned in apprehension. "Darn, are you a vegetarian?"

Her smile was out of place. The awkward man couldn't see what she was seeing. This looked like a low-maintenance date than a captive with her captor.

 _It's kinda cute, in a goofy sort of way._

"No, just…" She sighed before shaking her head. _Forget it._ He didn't need to know. "Thank you."

As Milton busied himself with heating up the tea, Samara looked over the lunch with a grimace of disgust mixed up with unspeakable hunger. She had had to force herself to eat this morning, only to throw it up in the end. Even water had a bitter taste to it that left her without thirst.

She hoped to the gods that she wouldn't throw up in Milton's face. She needed him on her side.

Milton brought the steaming tea, pouring it into her mug with a small hint of a smile. Samara watched him intently and wondered if he knew what he was doing, but by his general obliviousness, it didn't seem like it.

"You haven't been around women much, have you?" The Native asked with the grace of a battering ram.

Startled, Milton managed to splash some droplets of steaming hot water on his hand. The Native watched unaffected as he hissed and nursed his reddening skin.

"Uh…I…" Clearing his throat, the man placed a cool towel over his injury. "Before the Turn, I was a loner. I preferred the silence to people's company. I had my books and my experiments. I thought that was all I needed until the dead started walking." He smiled without humor for a moment. "Funny how situations change. If it hadn't been for the Governor I wouldn't be here."

"He saved you?"

"Me and him, we're not from Woodbury. We came here with several other people last summer." A different time and place seemed to be reflected over his eyes. "Good thing we did, because I _hated_ being on the road. Moving from one place to another is exhausting."

"I believe always being on the move is the best way to keep yourself alive. When you stagnate in one place, you risk getting spotted by walkers or other people."

"True, but what kind of life is that?" He watched her with melancholy. "You don't even have time to breathe because you're already thinking of the next route to take. I couldn't live like that. You have uncertainties at every corner, but at least here I know I'm safe."

She scoffed. "For how long, though?"

"For as long as the walls hold."

Definitive. The man was aware that death loomed over his precious sanctuary, but he chose to live in it than brave the outside world. It was just too scary. Some people too accustomed to the safety of four walls could not see the endless possibilities ahead of them.

Samara liked to liken them to zoo animals, unaware that there was life behind those sturdy bars.

 _Oh well…To each their own._

"Are you coming to the fight?"

"No."

 _That was…decisive._

"Too much violence for you?"

He shook his head, unwilling to look at her. "I just can't watch people debase themselves in such a way. We're not animals."

"We _are_ actually." Samara smirked coldly. "The only difference is we have some intelligence, some more than others. It's for the greater good, anyways."

"How can you say that? You could have ended up there. You could have been the one fighting for your life for the entertainment of others."

"True, but I'm not. As I said, some are smarter than others."

The man shook his head again, visibly upset by her words. "Still, the means do not justify the ends."

"Does it matter? As long as it's the desired result, who cares how it's accomplished."

Milton sighed dejected. "I can see why the Governor kept you alive. You're no different than them."

That did not sit well with the former marshal as she glared viciously.

"I'm nothing like your people!" Samara spat nastily making the man swallow nervously. "I would never even _think_ of making entertainment out of people's lives. I'm not saying I'm a good person because that would be a lie, but even I have my boundaries."

"I'm…sorry. That was uncalled for."

Samara nodded, sensing the man's sincerity.

They lapsed into silence as they ate their breakfast. Having recovered from his meeting with the boiling water, Milton tentatively drank from his tea. It was ginger and lemon flavored, good for the body's health, or so Milton said.

The food tasted horrible. Under any other circumstance, it would have been a wonderful treat, but right now to Samara it was nothing short of ash. It was like sand passed down her throat, sliding tortuously slow to her stomach. It was an _awful_ feeling and her stomach concurred as it wanted to regurgitate its new contents.

"I'm actually surprised that you're still here." Milton brought her out of her internal hell with an off-handed remark. "I thought you would try to escape at least once after witnessing everything."

She thought so too, but logical circumstances had her delaying her impatient flight. "I have nowhere to go. And it's not so bad here despite everything I've seen so far." _Lie._ "You have your own apartment. Food, water, clothes, job. I'm content."

So many lies to keep her life intact.

"Our own little Utopia..."

Samara detected a trace of sarcasm in his words.

"Milton…" She swallowed the small bite of her sandy sandwich. "Tell me about Merle."

He was the one she wanted to know more of. Merle was her ticket out of here after all.

This turn in conversation didn't seem to sit well with Milton as his face lost any trace of good will. He downright grimaced. "Why would you want to know about that… _man_?"

It seemed Samara wasn't the only one that disliked the gruff man's presence.

"Curiosity."

Milton sighed as he dropped his meal on his plate and leaned back into his chair. "Merle is the type of person you wouldn't want to meet on an empty street at night. That should tell you everything. To tell you the truth, the Governor should have never let him stay here. He's a menace."

"He seems to listen to him."

"Even a pet dog will one day bite the hand that feeds him. I've told the Governor that, but he won't listen."

 _He already did._

"He has faith in Merle."

Strange people the Governor collected, but not without reason. Merle was a brute, but every group needed a bruiser that could handle anything thrown at them. The Governor knew how to pick his people—ruthless, cunning, tough and with a worthy sense of survival. The only reason she was still alive and breathing.

"He told me he was left to die by his group."

 _By Rick and T-Dog._

"Yes. In that respect, I find him tragic. I mean being betrayed by your own people, I can't even imagine that. Worse, he had to leave his brother behind."

"Brother?" Samara feigned ignorance.

"Daryl. He was with the Atlanta group. Merle still looks for him every time he goes on a run. He thinks he's still alive somewhere. It's sad, really. They will probably never meet again. The odds are against them. _If_ Daryl is still alive, that is."

 _He isn't._

That churning feeling in her stomach became acidic. She could taste the bitterness on her tongue. No way could she finish her sandwich anymore.

"What about the Governor? What's his story?"

The other mysterious figure that greatly piqued her interest.

"I…" Milton frowned and crossed his arms over his chest defensively. Even his voice took on a different tone, evasive and slightly fearful. "Shouldn't talk about that and you shouldn't ask."

"Is it that much of a secret?"

"I know enough not to speak about him. If he tells you, then that's fine, but I won't. Sorry."

This Governor was more guarded than a pious virgin, Samara thought disgruntled. She couldn't understand why the secrecy, but then again she wasn't exactly the most forthcoming of people. She understood the need for privacy in this messed up world, especially since it could be used against you.

"You don't have to apologize."

Samara gently grabbed one of Milton's crossed arms and curiously observed the aftereffect. It was instantaneous. He turned beet red and sputtered, retracting his arm from her soft touch as if once more burned. The man cleared his throat and fiddled with his glasses as a means of distraction, before continuing with his lunch in silence, avoiding her gaze entirely.

She could use him, Samara thought as her sharp gaze appraised him like a prize. This was someone that probably never had a girlfriend or ever even reached third base. He was a naïve puppy and she bet if she gave him even the slightest bit of attention, he would go belly up. Virgins, emotional or otherwise, were the most easy to manipulate.

 _Yes…_

Having someone on her side in this fucked up place would be to her greatest benefit. And why not start with the weakest link?

* * *

In the silence of his cell, Dani worked relentlessly.

He hadn't been out of his tiny, oppressing confinement since he had seen his brother die in the arena. He could tell the passing of time by his guard's food deliverance. Twice a day, breakfast and dinner, and he had counted four days since then.

Four days of wallowing in misery and anguish in this dark room. Beating up the walls and destroying his mattress out of blind fury. His mind was always on his twin as the loss felt like a cutting, deep void in his soul. As if half of him had suddenly been torn away and scattered to the wind.

He felt hollow, but as soon as his faculties came back from the emotional Hell he had been engulfed in, Dani felt that nothing else mattered but cold, _hard_ vengeance against the person that caused this suffering.

And that bitch was going to pay, one way or another.

Grunt.

With all his strength he pulled out one of the bed sprains. Sweat poured down his face as he looked over the rusty metal with newfound determination.

But it wasn't time yet.

 _Soon._

The woman will die soon.

He will embrace death if that meant appeasing his brother's restless soul.

* * *

Samara stood hidden in the shadows of the pews, away from the prying eyes of anyone curious. The people of Woodbury seemed to have developed a fascination with her. They openly stared, but never approached. Samara was the shiny, new addition to their little kingdom so their gaze naturally gravitated towards her. She hated this feeling, like an exotic animal put on display. She understood natural human curiosity, but that didn't mean she wanted to be the subject being cast a bright light on.

Her shadow was not too far away, mingling with the other soldiers of Woodbury. He definitively was the quiet, serious type, only every now and then adding his two cents. Samara could only see his profile, but she knew he was supervising her from the corner of his eye. He may seem casual among his peers, but the Native recognized the signs that he was up and alert.

The Governor, as always, was in the middle of the arena delivering his _warm_ , grandiose speech and the people seemed to gobble it up like it was Scripture. Samara couldn't understand how these people actually believed every word that came out of his mouth, but considering how much of a presence the man was and how safe he made them feel, it would be strange if they didn't. For them, the Governor held the beast raging inside him at bay. He was their savior so they should repay him by obeying his every command.

 _Keh._

Merle stood on one side of the arena while Winchester in the other, flanked by two Woodbury men. The older Dixon was pumped as he could barely stand still, his eyes fixated on the Texan officer. No doubt carnage was on his mind as Samara could practically see his eyes sparkle with anticipation. Winchester wasn't as excited from the way he stood so resigned. His eyes were actually jaded as he looked over his surroundings, finally landing on her, half hidden in the shadows.

He smirked, but with a mocking intonation.

Samara stepped out of her protective cover.

Her sudden movement alerted her guard who promptly turned his head to watch her actions.

"Shumpert, was it?" Samara stood a meter away from him, highly aware that his company was staring at her like wolves.

He nodded.

"Can I talk to Winchester?"

His brow crinkled, but the lines disappeared just as fast.

"As long as you don't make any physical contact."

The hidden 'I'm watching you' was left unspoken. They both knew it without having to voice it.

Winchester watched her approach, that smirk of his having faded to a straight line. His guards were also watching her cautiously, but Samara kept herself as non-threatening as possible.

"Old man."

Samara greeted as she watched him from up close. He seemed thinner and more haggard than before. Captivity had that effect.

Winchester sighed as he looked over the crowd cheering for their soldier, while simultaneously glaring and shunning the doomed man.

"Can't believe this is how it ends." The Texan grimaced, his eyes holding a tiny flash of malice. "Dinner time entertainment for people zombified by TV culture and told how to live their lives by advertisements. People that believe anythin' they hear with a large smile on their faces while their brain leaks like puss out of their ears. This is what I spent thirty years to protect, marshal. Upstandin' citizens that at first sign of trouble turn to their baser instincts, no better than the scum I locked up."

"Doesn't seem worth it, does it?" Samara crossed her arms, a small nasty leer playing on her lips. "I never held any such illusions. Protecting people was never my mantra. To me, it was just a job, just like any other. Good or bad, people can just go die for all I care."

"Not a people person I take it."

Samara scoffed. That was saying the least.

"You don't think you're going to win?"

From what his body language emanated, it conveyed that he had already given up a long time ago.

"I'm too old to fight." Winchester confirmed her belief. "I don't think I want to anymore."

"Doesn't matter to me." The woman shrugged, unaffected by his morbid outlook. "This just tells me I'll get to see the bastards that killed my friends get their due."

Samara didn't despise this man. If it had been under different circumstances the two of them would have gotten along greatly, but his actions and that of his collective had sealed his fate in her eyes.

He _had_ to die.

But Winchester remained unaffected by her callous nature. "I heard about what you did to Micah. Can't say I blame you. We made the bed, now we have to lie in it." That air of resignation took a sharp turn as his eyes narrowed resolutely. "But just because I don't wanna fight doesn't mean I'm just gonna roll over and let that asshole do what he wants. He's gonna have to fight for it."

 _So…you still have some bite in you left._

Seeing him struggle was a better alternative to him just lying there like a vegetable, waiting for the knife to drop. If Winchester had even an unconscious smidgen of hope that he will survive tonight and upon realizing that it had been a dream from the start would be the perfect scenario. Seeing that hope in his eyes crash and burn would give Samara the greatest high ever.

Seeing Daryl's killers suffer, even a little, was what she coveted. They didn't get to die so easily.

"I'm surprised you're _here_." Winchester observed her from head to toe, inspecting her bandaged injuries and her overall healthy state. Whatever impression he had that she was out of her bonds, he would not share it.

Samara grinned nastily. "I wouldn't miss _this_."

Winchester smirked humorlessly. "You are a cruel woman indeed."

The Governor stepped off the lime light.

"It's show time…" Winchester sighed dejectedly, but his gaze was clear. He turned to the Native one last time and gave her a curt nod. "Goodbye, marshal."

Samara watched as he was uncuffed and pushed into the ring.

As before, the Governor joined her side and they both watched as the people in the pews exploded with excitement as the first punch was thrown.

"You can feel it, can't you?" The Governor mused softly as he watched in fascinated scrutiny. "The bloodlust?"

"It's like honey. Sticky and revolting on the tongue."

These people…they were like feral dogs growling and barking for the last bone. Samara could feel their good spirits like cold drops of dew rolling slowly down her spine.

"It's almost like they're chantin'." The Governor's voice took on a mesmerized characteristic. "I wonder if this is how the Romans felt, wachin' people savagely get mauled at their behest."

"Those were much more grandiose fights. They had chariots and tigers and shit."

"True, but I bet it's the same feelin'."

Samara gave the man a side glance. The way he was dissecting everything—from the two fighters to the excited people—reminded the woman of a predator in waiting.

"You're _enjoying_ this, aren't you?"

It couldn't be more obvious. The man was generally a closed book, but the electricity in the air seemed to have loosened those bonds keeping him tightly shut.

"Can't say that I'm not." The man smirked, not even ashamed by his open display. "It's always fascinatin' to see human nature at work. The ugliness and beauty of it."

"So which is it this time? The beauty or the beast?"

His eyes shined intimidatingly. "Can't it be both?"

Samara ripped her gaze away. She did not like looking at this man, especially when that darkness inside him made its ugly appearance.

The fight was as Samara had expected. Merle had the advantage while Winchester struggled to keep himself afloat. He was breathing raggedly in comparison to the Georgia man with sweat pouring down his brow. This was a man out of practice with physical aggression and it was painfully visible.

Merle had no mercy in his strikes. Even with his handicap, he was fast and brutal and knew where to hit to hurt the most. The model of an experienced brawler. Samara kept her focus on the older Dixon—how he moved, his response time, his natural instincts, the strength behind those punches; everything that could give her insight into how he operated. If it ever came down to a fight, she'd rather not go into it blindly.

Winchester didn't stand a chance. It was painfully clear who would win.

"How are you accomodatin'?"

The question seemed intrusive rather than thoughtful.

"As good as I can."

The Governor gave her a pointed look, but she did not cave under his domineering presence. Samara casually watched the fight, ignoring the man beside her.

Winchester fell to the ground as he received a particularly brutal uppercut. Dazed, he attempted getting to his feet only to fall back down. This wasn't even a fight, it was a beat down. Merle was just toying with him, but nobody seemed to mind. It was just entertainment as usual.

Even just from watching this display of aggression, Samara felt her body ache. It had been days since her fight with Micah, but her bruised flesh still hurt. It will take another week or so until the discoloration faded and her skin returned to its initial russet tint.

Merle hollered, inciting the crowd to cheer for him as Winchester struggled to breathe properly from the barrage of kicks he had received to his chest not a minute ago. Samara held no pity for him and even when it tried to rear its head, she reminded herself of Daryl hanging off the ceiling, blue skinned with veins bulging, his life slipping away forcibly; she reminded herself of Maggie dying in excruciating pain at the hands of the undead; and finally she remembered Oscar, his death a result of a botched escape and then cremated like a useless piece of trash.

She could smell the Texan's despair. This was a shitty way to die after all, but to be thoroughly humiliated was even worse.

Using the small bit of energy he had left, Winchester rose to his feet and in a moment of distraction, managed to punch Merle strongly. The Georgia man staggered as blood gushed from his nose, staining his lips and chin. Even from this distance, Samara could spot the malevolence in Merle's piercing gaze. He was _beyond_ angry.

The beating he delivered to the Texan even had Samara wince.

It was short lived, though, as Winchester remained on the ground coughing with blood splattered over his face and his flesh swelling.

"It's over."

The Governor's deep twang startled the Native out of the reverie she had been tangled in.

Yes, it was. Winchester was no longer able to stand, much less fight.

Merle looked over their way, to the man in charge. A simple nod from him had the Georgia man smile in murderous glee and Samara knew these were the Texan's last moments alive.

Merle walked calmly over to the downed man. Through swollen eyes, Winchester saw his Angel of Death stand above him, eyes empty of any remorse or pity. To him it was a simple task of putting down a useless dog, not an actual human being.

Samara's fingers curled into fists as Merle's boot rose and crashed over Winchester's throat. With a sickening crunch, Winchester's neck snapped and his last breath escaped his lungs in a pitiful wiz.

The crowd erupted into pandemonium, leaving only Samara and the Governor as still as statues, their eyes fixed on the dead man.

"Well, that's that." The Governor simply stated.

Easy to say, but not see. It had been a ruthless fight, leaving no question as to who the winner would ultimately be. With his arms up in the air, Merle peacocked around the ring with a large grin on his face and his eyes sparkling with adrenaline, not even caring that blood still painted his face. Nobody seemed to care that in the middle there was a badly beaten and bruised corpse with its neck caved in.

A slither of pity escaped the Native as she watched what used to be Winchester now reduced to nothing but a slab of broken meat. But that pity soon dissipated as dark memories reminded her to never feel regretful over an enemy. This was karma and it was _glorious._

As Merle did his victory tour, his gaze connected with Samara's. His smirk widened and he winked. It was a hostile one that conveyed his physical superiority. He was the greater predator between them and he wanted her to know that.

Samara grimaced.

"I think I've had enough."

She turned and left the frenzied crowd, unwilling to stare at that shit-eating grin Merle had on his face for not even a second more.

"'Night."

The Governor's amused tone reached her ears and she realized with bristled hairs that he had noticed their silent interaction and found it humorous.

 _Bastards…_

* * *

Daryl sighed in frustration.

He and Michonne were on house watch again, but it was the same as it had been the first time they came upon it. The building laid empty and abandoned by its temporary occupants.

"Ain't nobody comin' back here." Daryl addressed the giant elephant in the room. "We're just wastin' time."

Michonne took a deep breath as she rearranged her position against the base of the tree.

"I agree. Those people are not coming back. Something must have happened."

"We should go back to searchin' other places."

They couldn't stagnate in one place. Samara and Oscar had been taken somewhere else, that was fact…or only Samara, since Daryl firmly believed that the charred corpse was Oscar. It wasn't because he wanted to believe that the man was dead, but because there was no other explanation for the body. That cremation had been done in a hurry and without any drop of sentiment. Daryl would have done the same if he had been faced with the death of a stranger so close to home.

It was an unfortunate ending for the man, if it had been really him. Daryl might not have been close to Oscar, but he had been a comrade and they had struggled through some hard times. He just wished his death had been painless.

"Where would we even start?" Michonne looked at him skeptically. "We found this place by pure chance. We won't get this lucky next time."

The hunter knew that. It hadn't been skill that had brought them to this house, but a happy coincidence.

"You givin' up?"

The glare he received was scalding. He shouldn't have implied that. "I'll look for Samara to the ends of the Earth if I have to, but I need a direction. I _can't_ just search aimlessly."

Even Michonne knew her limits. Georgia was just too large of a state for just a small group of people to search it.

"South then. Let's go south."

It was a random direction. Daryl himself had no idea where to look. He was blind to what fate laid ahead.

Michonne sighed in futility, herself just as lost.

"As good a direction as any I guess. But just in case, someone should be here at all times."

Daryl nodded.

 _Just in case._


	38. An Introspective Conversation

Eric whistled languidly as he walked the cool corridor on the makeshift prison. In one hand lay a tray of food perfectly balanced and in the other he gripped the strap of his rifle that lay lifelessly on the back of his shoulder.

He wasn't really a fan of this repetitive, meager task since it reminded him of his less than stellar career before the dead decided to return to life, but like Martinez said—someone has to do it. Unfortunately, he had to be the one picked from oh so many Woodbury residents.

Load of crap, he thought.

But at least now he only had to babysit _one_ instead of five. He counted that as a blessing.

"Lunch time!"

The man announced his presence as he reached the cell with the only living occupant. As per usual, he opened the cell, expecting the prisoner to be with his back against the wall as far away as possible. In the beginning, Dani had tried surprising his guards and had gotten a brutal punishment for it. Since then, he hadn't tried attacking them once. Dani just kept to the wall and watched with intense scrutiny, each and every time asking about his brother's welfare.

He had stopped asking several days ago, understandably.

The guard paused in his tracks. Dani wasn't against the wall, he wasn't even crouched down on the mattress where he had been sulking for the past six days. In fact, he was coiled in a fetal position on the floor with his back to the door, unmoving.

"Wake up, man. Food time."

No response. Not even a twitch.

Was this a trick?

"Hey!"

His echo was his only answer.

 _Shit._

Lowering the tray, Eric took up his rifle and slowly approached the downed man. Nothing seemed to indicate that Dani was still alive and breathing.

 _If he died on my watch Merle's going to make me guard the biters._

Eric grimaced at that horrid thought.

Lowering his weapon, he got to his knees and moved Dani's body until he was on his back. He wasn't breathing. His alarm skyrocketing, Eric placed his ear on the man's chest and listened for a heartbeat.

—That proved to be his biggest mistake ever.

Like a panther Dani was upon him. Eric didn't even have time to think as his world took a spin and he found himself on the ground with a very angry Hispanic atop him, caging him in. His rifle had been pushed away with enough force for it to hit the wall and remain out of reach. Something thin and cold touched his throat with enough pressure for it to hurt—it was a rusty mattress coil.

"Hey man, c-calm down." Panic began to bubble up in his throat making his pitch higher than usual. That piece of metal was just on his artery, poised to perforate his sensible skin.

"Shut the fuck up!" Dani spat in his face, his gaze as cold as the gun barrel pointed at him. "Where's that bitch?"

"W-Who?"

"The one I brought here!"

It took a few moments for Eric's frenzied brain to comprehend who he was talking about.

"I—" Eric was at a loss. His mind just couldn't conjure up a place where the newest addition to Woodbury was located. It was all just confusing flashes, his survival instincts taking top priority as they yelled at him to get out of this situation _alive_. "I…"

Losing his patience with the blubbering man, Dani's fingers coiled around the bed sprain and he punched Eric in the face. The man yelped as blood gushed from his nostrils. Worse, he couldn't even move his hands to cup his throbbing nose as Dani locked them down his body tightly. He was like a mouse in iron trap, no way out of its predicament and his frazzled mind rebelled against the notion.

Eric began struggling as hysteria took over his any remaining sane faculties.

He wasn't supposed to be here! He wanted out!

"Stop!" Dani bared his teeth in a domineering suggestion, but Eric was lost to his heightened senses.

Having enough of the wild horse underneath him, Dani settled the sprain to his side and gripped a handful of Eric' hair. With bruising force, he began to mercilessly smash Eric's head into the hard pavement. Again and again and again until Eric's frantic movements were subdued and his brain settled into a daze.

Taking control of the spring again, Dani pressed it to Eric's jugular until a thin line of blood rolled down his throat.

"Tell me or I'm gonna kill you!" Time was running out. He needed to know _now_.

"She's…" Despite Eric's eyes going in and out of focus, he still retained enough consciousness to realize that if he didn't reveal the information Dani wanted, he would die. "…Milton's."

"Where is that?" Dani shook him until his eyes were focused on him and not empty air. "Tell me!"

"Not far…" Eric then broke down, the past minutes crashing over his head like a ten tone anvil. Tears poured down his face as his features contorted pitifully. "Please, I don't wanna die."

"If you tell me where, I won't."

Eric nodded his head vigorously, but in his desperation he failed to see the glint of malice in the Hispanic's eye.

* * *

Coils of grayish white smoke coiled around Merle's head as he gazed unfocused into the forest beyond Woodbury. It was early, the morning chill having not even subsided.

The older Dixon winced as his entire body ached. The fight yesterday had left him with a line of sour muscles and a few ugly bruises. His face was the worst since Winchester managed to clock him a few times good, leaving great blueish-black discolorations. The doctor had indicated he rest for the time being, but Merle always got restless staying put for too long. Like a bear in a tiny cage, he needed space to run and hunt. Moreover, as a former drug addict he needed to keep himself occupied at all times lest his mind wander to past obscure and euphoric memories. Joining the spic on the wall had seemed like a good idea, even if it was a dull one.

"You okay there, man?" Martinez asked from his seat on a wooden box not too far away, his own cigarette releasing swirling clouds. "Winchester gave you quite a beating."

"Yeah, the old man had some fight left in him."

Winchester hadn't disappointed him. Merle had expect him to fight back with the same ferocity his statuesque features portrayed and that he delivered. Of course, the man's advanced age and his relative out of shape body hadn't been able, in the end, to catch up with Merle's active physique. Merle didn't find it a shame, though. He had gotten what he had wanted—the score settled and a good fight.

Merle then glared at the younger man. "And he _didn't_ beat me. Do you see him standin' here instead of me?"

"Easy there, Merle." Martinez smirked as the cigarette bobed between his lips. "Don't break a hip."

"Piss off, _hombre_."

Martinez huffed under his breath, but it wasn't in aggravation. After all these months, the Hispanic had become accustomed to Merle's crotchety attitude, sometimes even finding it amusing as he enjoyed poking the man with a very long stick just to kill time. The man was easy to rile, after all.

"Fuck, this is gonna be a slow day." Martinez checked his watch before sighing in boredom. It was still too early. "I hate standing here and just waiting for a walker to appear and give us something to do."

Merle nodded in complete understanding. "Yeah, the chill ain't help—"

 _Eh?_

His heart did a double leap.

… _Walker?_

Merle turned fully towards the oblivious Hispanic as he just continued smoking with a lost gaze.

"What you say?" He hissed in a whisper. He could barely hear anything beside the rush of blood to his head.

"Huh?" The haze lifted and Martinez's shoulders locked from seeing Merle's strangely vigilant state. Something wasn't right. "I said I hate standing he—"

"No!" Merle interrupted impatiently, his teeth gnashing. "You said 'waitin' for a walker'. Where you hear that?"

"Fuck, did I say that?" Martinez frowned in thought. "I've been around that woman long enough for her words to get to me. The biters, she calls them walkers."

Merle's brain did a double take as heat enveloped his skin, making him sweat bullets. He just couldn't understand.

"The squaw?"

"Yeah, her." This time a slither of exasperation crawled into Martinez's voice. "Damn, you're slow today. Must be the age."

There was no rebuke. No string of curses. Not even a peep. Merle just stood frozen like a statue as his brain tried to keep up with his thoughts' speed.

 _Walker…_

The Atlanta group used to call the geeks that. He'd never once heard anyone call the undead walkers that hadn't been part of the group. He himself had stopped using that word when he came to Woodbury in favor of 'biters', as the Woodbury people called them. It wasn't out of want, but practicality and familiarization.

This woman _couldn't_ have known that word unless—

Merle's pale blue eyes settled into cold ice.

"Where is she?"

Martinez had seen that look before and it had always spilled disaster. Deep down, Merle was a feral beast that every now and then was left off his tight chain, but this time it seemed that his shackles snapped clean off. Merle was on the war path.

…Well, it wasn't like it was his problem. If Merle hurt the Native then that was his and his alone. He'll have to deal with the Governor's wrath.

Martinez shrugged, unaffected by the malevolence in Merle's eyes. "I'm not babysitting her anymore, man. Probably at Milton's."

The speed in which Merle left the Wall impressed even the Hispanic. For a cripple with a banged up body, Merle could move swiftly when he wanted to.

Martinez continued smoking indolently as he gazed into the shadows of the forest.

He didn't expect anything to happen more than a shouting match. Shumpert had been dogging the woman ever since she was released out of her cell per the Governor's orders. The stoic man will stop any fight that broke out and restrain Merle from doing any harm.

He wasn't worried.

But what he did find interesting was why Merle reacted so _extremely_ over that one word.

* * *

Samara observed with disinterest the tied up, jawless walker on the operation table. Milton's new pet project was studying the insides of the undead and it was just as disgusting as it sounded. If the stench didn't kill her, then the sight would. Seeing rotted organs coagulated in tarry blood was not exactly Samara's tea, especially since the walker was still alive, so to say. She felt like throwing up the meager breakfast she had eaten.

Yesterday's entertainment hadn't improved her mood. That emptiness was still there and Winchester's death brought no new satisfaction. Everything remained the same dull and forlorn color.

The walker's milky white eyes followed them with an eerie attentiveness as if it were actually sentient instead of the hunk of putrid flesh it was.

"Give me a scalpel. Not this one, the thinner one."

Samara sighed in boredom as she played nurse to Frankenstein. Milton seemed lost in his own little world of theories and experiments that he probably wouldn't even notice if bombs dropped atop them.

"Why are we doing this?"

"We need to see if any of the other organs function." Milton spoke from behind his face mask as his focus never wavered from the corpse he poked and prodded. "I don't believe it's only the brain. If we do that we might understand the process on how these _things_ function."

"The brain is the puppet master." Samara remembered Rick's words on his discoveries in the CDC. "This is pointless."

"It's not. Have some faith, Samara."

 _Oh Gods…_

Samara rolled her eyes and moved away from the engrossed wannabe scientist.

"I'm going to boil some water. You want some tea?"

"I was never known to refuse a good tea." Milton actually tore his eyes away from his work as he smiled behind the mask. "Use Earl Grey Jasmine this time and let it infuse for three minutes, no more than that."

With her back to him, Milton didn't see Samara roll her eyes over her head petulantly. She couldn't care less about his tea. She just wanted to be as far away from that carved up walker as possible.

As Samara put the kettle on, she watched with a jaded expression as tiny bubbles rose to the surface of the steaming water. How long did she have to remain here? After last night's _entertainment_ , she felt the pull towards freedom even more desperately. The fear that one day she'll be the one getting slaughtered in that tiny ring was beginning to make its burrow in her thoughts.

She _needed_ to talk with Merle. He was her only ticket out of here. Problem was that unless he wanted to talk with her, it would be odd if _she_ sought him out. Her guard especially, who she hadn't seen today, would find it particularly curious. She didn't need the Governor's interest springing up again.

Samara wanted to see the others. She needed a familiar face in these hard times—Michonne, Andrea, Rick…hell, even Lori would be a welcome sight. But the one she wanted to see the most wasn't among the living anymore. He was gone, most likely now a walker hanging by the ceiling of a supermarket.

She didn't even have anything of his to remember him by...

The bubbles multiplied and increased in size.

Perhaps it was better this way. Once she reached the prison she should _not_ take anything of his. They should all just burn his possessions. Samara had seen how dreadfully clingy she could get with memorabilia—she couldn't even part with her photos, even as her love for John had lost much of its intensity. Keeping ghosts alive was a one way ticket to wretchedness.

The water was boiling.

She reflexively flipped the switch and the fire went out.

Just as she was about to throw in two teabags, the door opened and in walked a man with a baseball cap over his face and a rifle in his hands.

"Oh, hey Eric." Milton greeted casually, familiar with the worn out maroon baseball cap. "What's wrong? Did the Governor send you?"

'Eric' lifted his head.

Samara was the first to react. She gripped the red-hot teapot handle and was about to launch it when that rifle aimed her way.

"Don't even think about it, _puta_."

Milton stood up, shaken to his core. It wasn't Eric, it was Dani in Eric's clothes. Armed to the teeth and _furious_.

"Shit…" Milton whispered behind his mask, his eyes wide in horror.

"Put it down." Dani's eyes were solely on Samara, burning with an intensity bordering on mania. "Now."

Samara placed the kettle back on the portable stove, not even minding the sensation of the million ants biting her inflamed palm.

 _This isn't good._

This was far from it being right. Why was Dani out and armed? How did he find her? Who the fuck had been stupid enough to help him?! Or maybe…he escaped…

So many questions and no time as Dani approached Samara with the rifle still pointed at her.

"Long time no see, huh _puta_?" Dani spat vehemently. "Been living quite the comfy life while my brother lies in the ground dead."

Twitch.

She didn't know which Gods felt like fucking with her today, but Samara knew she only had herself to blame for the verbal diarrhea that followed without restraint.

"Actually, he was chopped up and given to the walkers." Samara said with a straight face. "I know because I fed him to them."

It had been instantaneous. Samara's jaw met the butt of Dani's rifle, blood spurting out of her split lip. Samara fell onto the table, bringing the stove and everything else down with her. A shriek of excruciating pain was torn out of her throat as some of that scorching hot water fell over her exposed arms. She could feel her skin tighten and swell, glowing painfully red.

For once quick on his feet, Milton picked up the tray littered with surgical items and rushed the distracted Dani. The clang that echoed as metal hit skull was short and succinct. Dani cursed foully, one of his hands nursing the lump atop his head. But just as fast as the impact happened, so did Dani recover from the hit. He punched Milton with all the fury he had, sending him over the nearby table that had the model Woodbury, demolishing it in the process.

Profiting from this inattention, Samara picked herself up. Her jaw throbbed mightily as blood dribbled down the side of her lips and now white spots began to appear on her arms. She wouldn't even begin to try dwelling on the pain she was currently experiencing because she knew it would spell her death.

Taking a hold of the rifle, Samara effectively began to fight for control with the Hispanic. Seeing as her side was caving in under Dani's brute strength, Samara spat blood in his face. Surprised, Dani's firm grip slackened and this gave Samara the opportunity to reciprocate his earlier action. She hissed as her knuckles stung from the impact, her wounds still tender from her fight with Micah.

Retching the rifle from the man's hands, Samara aimed and pulled the trigger. Grabbing the barrel just in the last moment, Dani pushed it away, the bullet perforating the wall behind him instead. The Hispanic hissed as his palm burned from the hot metal.

He reached for Samara and slapped her harshly. The impact to her already bruised jaw had her seeing stars as the rifle fell to the floor. Dani grabbed Samara by the shirt and with a mighty roar, threw her onto the surgical table where the live walker was strapped. The sudden weight tipped over the table and Samara crashed to the ground along with the walker.

The undead struggled against his bonds and produced a horrendous gurgle from deep within its throat. Its eyes rolled wildly inside its head, from her to Dani to Milton.

It wasn't the only one feeling frantic. Samara's heart was literally a racing car stuck in a loop as it pedaled in her chest. Around her lay many surgical instruments and the one she grabbed was the thick scalpel that Milton had refused initially.

Rising from her protection cover, Samara threw the blade with sharp accuracy. Dani yelled as the blade found refuge in his body, right below his lungs.

"Fuck!" He held the handle as blood collected and stained his shirt ruby red.

In a grip of madness, Samara took one of the scattered syringes and stabbed the walker's organs several times until a thick smog of black blood coated the needle. The idea came to her in a flash and she wasn't about to waste it.

Jumping over the table, she rushed Dani who had finally managed to pull out the scalpel, making blood rush out in droves, and was now reaching for his weapon.

The Hispanic anticipated Samara's attack and caught one of her hands in a bruising grip, but failed to see the syringe hidden in her free palm. Her first stab was to his cheek.

Dani screamed and defended himself from the onslaught, the rifle dropping to the floor once again.

Without an ounce of mercy, Samara ripped it out and began stabbing him wildly. His palm, his arm, his chest, shoulders, face, wherever there was some leeway in his defense.

Samara stabbed him until the coagulated, putrid blood was replaced with bright red, and she smiled. Perhaps to Dani she looked like a deranged demon, but only she knew why. He was a dead man from the moment the needle pierced his skin.

In the insanity of the attack, Dani found the strength to wildly punch Samara in the throat, sacrificing a needle to the jaw.

Samara fell to the side, holding her neck and gasping for air. Veins bulged from the strain as her lungs went into a frenzy. She could barely even see straight as her mind rebelled and screeched.

Dani rose to his feet. With shaky hands and a bellow of shock, he pulled the syringe lodged in his jowls. With wide eyes and panting breath the man looked over the bloodied needle.

"What the fuck was that black shit?"

But he would find no answer as the only thing Samara could do at the moment was wheeze and gasp while clawing at her own neck.

"Hey!" He kicked her in the side. "What was it?!"

"Undead…" In a small, barely audible voice did Samara manage to spit out a few words. "…blood…"

He froze.

It seemed like forever until Dani finally moved, his eyes widening with horror. He had seen enough to know what that meant.

" _You fucking bitch!"_

Mercilessly, Dani began kicking the downed woman. Gone was his sanity. This lanky woman that had murdered his brother now had sentenced him to death as well. He was a _dead_ man.

This bitch was the reason for all his grief! Why did he bring her here? How could he have known that she would bring so much disaster atop his group? He should have killed her at the supermarket instead of that redneck. Maybe then he would have been back at the house with his brother alive, not here kept captive like a rat and having to watch his brother getting slaughtered without any power to change the tide of events.

But no…

Micah was dead because of her.

He was now heading towards undeath because of her.

Nothing mattered anymore except raining down as much pain as possible upon this witch.

His next kick was particularly brutal as he targeted her shoulder, stomping on it for good measure. Samara howled in excruciating pain as she felt the bone dislocate.

With a war cry that would have made a viking proud, Milton sprang from the shadows and jumped Dani's back. In all the commotion, Milton seemed to have been forgotten. It suited the man just fine as he had been left to his own devices; to strike at the appropriate time. And it paid off in the end as with a swift flick, a pencil was embedded deep into Dani's soft throat.

An elbow met with Milton's face, throwing the man off. With a shocked expression, Dani gingerly felt the thin, wooden object as it remained three quarters in his throat. He didn't even get the chance to understand what was going on as Milton picked up the rifle and pointed it at him.

"Oh God, please forgive me."

Click.

Boom.

Dani fell to the floor, blood leaking from the bullet hole in his chest. He gurgled a few times until nothing more was heard except for Samara's whimpers of pain and Milton's ragged breath.

The door to the lab opened with a bang. With his gun out and ready, Merle entered the garage, his eyes fleeting everywhere for the threat. All he saw were two beaten people, a dead man and an agitated biter.

"What the fuck happened here?!"

* * *

Everything was a blur.

Samara barely understood what was going on as the room filled with people and different voices began talking to each other, sometimes overlapping and creating a raucous sound. She didn't even know how much time passed until someone tended to her broken body.

Samara wondered what she had to do to get some painkillers right _now_. Every fiber in her being ached now as the adrenaline left her body. Even the tiniest of movements sent jolts throughout her entire system. She felt so rigid, as if covered in hardened clay from head to toe.

Soft, gentle hands poked and prodded her. Through puffy eyes, Samara caught a hint of blond tresses and cornflower-blue eyes. The face of the woman seemed familiar, but she couldn't put her finger on it.

"Can you hear me?"

Her voice was young and pleasing to the ear.

"If you can, raise a finger."

Samara did, although it was a shaky one.

"Alright, good. You ain't dead yet."

 _Smart woman._

"How the hell did this happen?" Samara heard the deep tenor of the one called the Governor. He was beyond displeased as he paced across the room looking from Dani to the injured party. "An escaped prisoner and gunshots at eight in the morning!?"

"Dani escaped." Merle was the one that spoke. "Must've found a rifle and went all Gung-Ho on the squaw."

"Goddammit!"

Something crashed, most likely thrown into the wall or floor out of sheer anger.

"Hey, Milton." Martinez's familiar voice spoke gently. "Man, can you hear me? Alice, come here. He doesn't look good."

 _Martinez is here also?_

 _And who's Alice?_

"He's probably in shock." The woman above Samara spoke as she moved towards the pair, leaving the Native to her devices.

"Why the hell weren't you with her?" Merle hissed, his gruff voice overlapping with the woman's melodious one. "Ain't that your job?"

"I had a job to do that didn't involve following the woman."

 _Was that Shumpert?_ Samara couldn't tell. She barely heard the man talk before.

As Merle argued one-sided with the ever grave Shumpert, Samara moved her head to the side. She could barely see anything except for some distorted figures in the distance, but what she clearly saw was the scalpel she had used as a weapon, glinting with fresh blood just in her reach.

Not even thinking of the repercussions, Samara reached towards it. She had to have it. It wasn't a want, but a must. For once, luck was on her side as she gripped it firmly. Dragging her only good arm back, she dug the scalpel deep in her pants, praying to all the Gods that no one would think of checking her there.

"He was on my orders." Samara was brought back to the conversation as the Governor intervened exasperatedly, most likely tired of hearing Merle shout. "Shumpert, head to the cells and learn just how the hell he escaped."

Heavy footsteps left the vicinity.

Before Samara could even make another move, Alice returned to her side. She smiled gently, but Samara couldn't find it reassuring in her current predicament.

"The way I see it, the fuckin' spic wanted revenge for his brother. Guess he got it, even if it's a bit."

"Fuck…you..." Samara whizzed under hear breath at Merle's insensitivity and those cornflower-blue eyes seemed, for a moment, to gleam with amusement.

"Merle. Martinez."

"Yeah, boss?"

"Help Alice get Milton and Samara to Stevens, the rest of you take care of the body. Can't believe this happened today…"

 _Ah._

It hit her then.

 _Alice…_ The nurse she always saw at the clinic, hunched over papers while biting her lip in thought. The one that never spoke.

Strong arms gripped her body and she felt herself being lifted. It was Martinez from what little she could see.

All this excitement, coupled with the pain and her decrease in energy from not eating properly dimmed her vision. She knew she was passing out, but still hung onto the last vestiges like a drowning man.

In the end she lost the fight and the last thing she saw were a pair of familiar, cold blue eyes watching her keenly.

* * *

Samara woke with a start.

Her eyes fleeted about at the foreign room she was in. The whiteness of it put her on edge as well as the smell of sanitary alcohol. Upon further inspection it was clear she was back in Stevens' clinic.

It all came crashing down on her like a bad dream—Milton. Dani. The fight.

"Shit…"

Her whole body felt sore, especially her shoulder. That fucking asshole had stomped on it, dislocating it. She could feel a sling wounded across it, keeping her shoulder firmly bound. And Gods, her poor arms. They felt like a hundred ants were feasting on them.

Testing her only good arm, she tried to raise herself against the headboard, but a strong hand settled onto her shoulder and pushed her back into her place.

"Stop movin', you'll undo my work." Stevens spoke gently, but firmly.

For once, it was good to hear a familiar voice that didn't want to inflict any pain on her. Stevens settled into the chair next to her bed, a clipboard in his lap and his steady gaze watching her with an air of reprimand.

"You took one hell of a beatin'."

Meaning—you got into a fight again.

"Spare me." Samara averted her gaze, unwilling to hear his words.

"You got out lightly out of that situation, but it could have been far worse." The man's voice came out with a sharp edge. "Be thankful."

" _Sure._ " She scoffed, now incensed. Why was she the one being scolded? "I feel like I just got run over with a bulldozer. I'm so ever _thankful_ to that asshole."

"Better that than dead." Stevens sighed tiredly, before his eyes settled back on her with a dullness. "You are either one unlucky woman or you have a thing for violence."

"Can't say that fists ever turned me on before."

Stevens snorted.

He picked up the clipboard and perused through it.

"Well, Samara, this latest foray into aggression earned you a dislocated shoulder, more than enough bruises to last you a lifetime, a split lip, blood in one of your eyes, a bruised throat and 1st degree burns on both your arms, particularly you right." His eyes lifted to hers pointedly. "I think it's time to say a break is in order."

She nodded, not even trying to coerce the doctor from bed-ridding her. A few days away from prying eyes and unlikable people was just what she needed.

"Your shoulder will heal in a few weeks, but in the meantime you'll need to do some stretchin' exercises to return to your usual level of fitness. I advise you not to do any strenuous activities until you are fully healed. Better to wait than to create a disability for the rest of your life. As for your arms…You're gonna need some antibiotic ointment, but it's nothin' serious. A week and your skin will be back to normal."

"Isn't there a pill you can give me to restore me to full health?" Samara asked wishing at the moment that something of that prowess existed.

The doctor snorted again. "Maybe if we were in the Mario world, otherwise no, unfortunately. Rest and medication is all I can do. And when I mean medication, I mean Ibuprofens, not the strong stuff."

"You're no help."

"I'm not here to feed your habit, Samara."

The doctor rose from his chair.

"I'm gonna tell the Governor that you'll be stayin' here for the time bein'. Alice will check on you periodically and if you need anythin' either her or me is gonna be here."

Samara nodded and arranged herself as comfortably as possible.

"What happened to Milton?" Samara asked with a faint hint of worry. That man had done something for her that probably went against his moral code.

"He's alright for the most part. A few bruises that will fade with time, but I'm more concerned with his mental state."

"He killed Dani."

Stevens nodded apprehensively. "Not everyone is used to takin' life, undead or otherwise."

Samara breathed deeply. She wished she could thank him. If it hadn't been for his courage, she would have been dead.

"He's not here if that's what you're wonderin'. He had no serious injury, so there was no need for him to remain." The doctor frowned as if displeased with the verdict. "The Governor will watch over him."

"He's not exactly the right person for that."

The man said nothing, but Samara could sense his agreement.

"Rest, Samara. There ain't anythin' else you can do right now."

Samara listened to his fading footsteps and heard the door close behind him with a silent click. The bedding area was separated from where he did his work and the Native was glad for it. Isolation was all she wanted at the moment.

She hoped Milton would be alright. She might not care about him all that much, but his actions did raise him in her eyes. She just hoped that soft heart of his wouldn't make him do something incredibly stupid.

* * *

Samara had no notion of what time of day it was when she heard the door open.

Even the faintest of sounds had her on alert, even during slumber. Surviving in this harsh world had taught her that to keep herself alive she needed to transform herself into a light sleeper with one eye opened at all times.

A dark shape moved against the reddish-orange hue of the rising or setting sun. Once it got within range of her one good eye, Samara's muscles locked tightly.

"Had a nice nap, sweetheart?"

Merle stared her down from the foot of the bed. Gone was his usual roguish grin, instead replaced with a grim line that had Samara on edge. Merle never looked serious unless he was angry.

And she was _alone_ with him.

"As good as it can be considering everything." Where was Stevens? Or the girl, Alice? "Isn't it too early for a ghoul like you to be out?"

Merle's eyes sharpened into diamonds.

 _Don't rile him. You have nothing to defend yourself against him._

"What do you want?" Samara spat nervously.

Merle was silent and further up did Samara's anxiety soar. With languid steps, he walked over the chair and plopped in it. His good hand fished for a packet of cigarettes and lit one up.

"I'm pretty sure you can't smoke in here." Samara said snidely, but Merle continued to ignore her sass.

To her great surprise, he offered her one.

"I don't smoke." Even though her fingers twitched in want.

Merle snorted, as if he knew better.

They sat in silence as the older Dixon smoked his cigarette, never once breaking eye contact with her. It was beginning to grate on the woman's nerves as the quiet prolonged. It felt like the calm before the storm.

Had he come here to kill her? Had the Governor grown tired of her and now wanted to dispose her like a used doll? Was this the end—

"Walkers."

Samara's brows rose in confusion. _What?_

"That's what you call the biters, right?"

"I guess…"

The Native didn't understand where this conversation was headed.

"Funny thing that." His stare narrowed into cold slits. "I've heard that name before, almost a lifetime ago."

A silent intake of breath.

Samara's pupils dilated with a slither of dread.

"The Atlanta group I ran with used to call 'em that. You know, the people that left me to die." Merle slowly settled his elbows on his knees, his features now chiseled out of stone. "Now, how could you have heard that unless you knew them somehow? Ain't never heard anyone call the geeks that before."

Silence.

That had never crossed her mind before, to be honest. What a laugh. To think that one insignificant name could topple the entire pyramid of cards. Samara felt almost stupid.

What now, though? Should she deny his accusations? Or was this her best and only opportunity to come clean and rope him to her side, securing her future escape?

If she embellished a story now and he, for some miraculous reason, believed it then will he ever believe her when she did tell him about the group?

 _Unlikely._

"I'll take that cigarette."

Merle offered it without a word and even lit it up for her. Samara enjoyed that one short moment where the nicotine flooded her system after such a long time deprived of it.

The older Dixon's patience was wearing thin with the continuous delay as his foot started tapping incessantly and his fingers tightened on his cigarette.

 _Here goes the dice._

"You remember that blond? The one me and my friend were carrying towards the car?"

He nodded.

"Her name's Andrea. I believe you two know each other."

Merle's eyes narrowed in thought, but soon widened in remembrance.

"The one with the sister." He whispered in awe.

"Amy."

"Right. That was her?"

Samara nodded.

"Where is she now?" His words came out faster, more impatient. Samara knew what was on his mind. "Why was she with you two?"

"She got separated from her group. The ones that left you behind."

Merle cursed harshly as he rubbed his tight features. Just when he thought he found the golden bricked road…"What she say about them? How did she get separated?"

Samara puffed out a circle of smoke and watched as it deformed in the air.

—The dice hit the edge of the table.

"You want to know about your brother."

Merle's eyes narrowed ominously. His form seemed to tower over hers now, but Samara held her ground even though her instincts screamed at her to push him away.

"What you know about him?" He hissed lowly, intimidatingly. This was a beast showing its fangs.

"He's _alive_ , for one." Samara's gaze hardened. "I've seen him."

Unfortunately, she couldn't tell him the truth. The fantasy of Daryl being alive was the only thing that would guarantee her freedom. It was an ugly lie, but one she needed at the moment.

Merle's features slackened, but a wave of relief crashed over him. He settled back in his chair, rubbing his stiff jaw. For the first time did Samara actually see the man happy. Not sneering or angry or taunting, but sincerely joyful.

She _almost_ felt sorry.

But that good mood soon dissipated as reality crashed over their heads, and all that was left was an air of shrewdness and animosity.

"Where is he?"

"What do I get out of it?"

"How about I don't use this." He indicated his metal hand with the blade shinning menacingly. "To make you talk."

Samara scoffed, not intimidated by his tactics. "Try again."

With lightning reflexes, Merle crushed his metal hand against her tender throat and raised his fist high. Samara's cigarette dropped out of her hand and rolled underneath the bed where it lay until it extinguished itself.

"Don't even try it, redneck!" Samara snapped authoritatively, breaking through the man's violent haze. "You are depending on my good will to find your brother's location. I suggest you try calming down and thinking logically. This is business."

His nostrils flared with restrained fury. Samara could see in his wild irises that the man wanted nothing more than to pummel the answers straight out of her, but the Native was one person he could not break via such crude methods.

He seemed to have reached the same conclusion as Merle backed away and took a deep, calming breath.

"What you want?"

"A way out."

Merle scoffed. "The only way outta here is in a body bag, hun."

"Yes, I've heard that before and I'm not buying it. I've seen your defenses, they have many loopholes. You probably know each and every one of them by heart."

"I might, but that don't mean I can just sneak people in and out." His eyes narrowed. "And I ain't ever gonna do that."

"Because of the Governor." She understood his trepidation, but unfortunately she didn't care. It was high time she left this joint. "But you see, I think there are some things even you would go against the Governor on. Your brother being one of them. _If_ you still want to see him again."

Merle rose from his chair in frustration. He paced across the foot of her bed like a caged beast and Samara knew his thoughts weighted heavily. This was not an easy choice. Failure meant certain death, but the reward was so much sweeter.

"How the hell do I even know you're tellin' the truth?" His shrewd gaze returned to her. "You could have heard about Daryl from someone around here, or Milton since that asshole can't stop talkin' once he gets into it."

"You have a motorcycle that Daryl is riding now. He wears a leather vest with angel wings on the back and he has the same blue eyes, but his are kinder. And..." Samara fidgeted as she remembered that one time spent with him in the warden's office. "He has old scars on his back."

Merle stopped in his frantic pace and frowned hesitantly. "What scars?"

"You…don't know about them?"

 _Odd._ Something of that magnitude should have been a major indicator of his existence to this man.

"I know he got a tattoo, but there ain't no scars I ever heard of."

 _Uh…_

"I guess…you'll have something to talk about once you're reunited." The Native rapidly jumped over this obstacle in their communication. She just hoped he wouldn't ask _how_ she knew something like that.

"Shit…" Merle looked over the sun in awe. It had a strange effect on his eyes, making them appear almost purple. "My baby bro is alive."

That hard edge returned immediately. "Where is he, squaw?"

"Some place only I know." She responded firmly, unwilling to give him even a hint. If he was anything like his brother in aptitude, which was becoming increasingly clear, he could decipher where the prison was in no time. "Get me out of here and I'll take you straight to him so you can have your family reunion. I'll even add in a bonus—Rick and T-Dog."

The man had been so focused on his long, lost brother that he seemed to have forgotten that there lay two people he most despised. Another aphrodisiac to get him over to her side.

"You _are_ with them." The older Dixon now firmly believed this statement.

"It's a long story which I don't have the time to tell. Suffice it to say that I know them."

Merle rose to his feet, but Samara caught the flash of malevolence directed towards her. Oh, how she wished she had that scalpel she pocketed right about now.

"Don't even think about it!" She barked as his blade readied itself to open up her face. "I am the one holding the key here and if you think carving me up like a Thanksgiving turkey will loosen my tongue then you're _deeply_ mistaken. I'd rather kill myself than give you the satisfaction."

His fury was almost palpable, making Samara's skin pucker in alarm. If the idiot hurt her, then he'll have to explain to the Governor why exactly and that would open a can of worms she desperately wanted to maintain shut tight. Right now, Merle had to take a step back and think over his choices. There would be nothing to gain by hurting her.

"Now leave." She hissed strongly despite the blade's hungry gleam. "Take some time to reflect what I told you. I want to get the hell out of here and you want to see your brother again. We can _help_ each other. Think hard on what is more important to you—your brother or this place." Samara took a deep breath. "When you finally come to a conclusion, I'll be here."

Merle harshly exhaled the breath he had been holding in. Like a predator denied the right to his kill, he backed away even more livid than before. This wasn't a man to be told what to do, much less put down.

Samara was now even more unsure of what his final choice will be.

Before Merle could leave the room, Samara issued one last warning just in case he was thoughtless or hopeful enough to try it.

"If you breathe a word about this conversation to the Governor I will tell him about our previous meeting and I'll damn us both to your Hell."

She was serious. If this all went tits up, she'd rather die than send these people armed to the teeth and led by that psychopath over to Rick and the others.

Alone again, Samara felt even more exhausted than the first time she woke up after Dani's attack. With a shaky hand, she wiped the sweat from her face, thankful that she had gotten unscathed out of this dealing. If this had been handled differently or if Samara had given into her usual derisive antics, it could have spelled a shiv to the ribs.

Now, only time will tell his answer. The Native just hoped that the wait wouldn't leave her a dried up old prune with frazzled nerves.

 _Almost there…_

She was almost _home_.

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_ So, what did you think up until now? Is the story moving in the right direction? Is it too fast paced? I, for one, think it's going just about right. It's not too dragged out or quick, or unreasonable.

Thoughts about Merle? Is he written correctly? I'm not really sure on that part.

Feedback would be awesome. Cheers!


	39. Unlikely Partnership

Samara felt a knot in her throat.

Two days had passed and still no sign of Merle. The anxiety Samara felt was mind-altering, making her break out in cold sweat at inappropriate times. Hope diminished as seconds ticked by. What if in the end he gambles it all and reveals everything to the Governor? This had been on her mind for a while now, giving her no respite. The consequences that would follow would be _disastrous_. That would be one instance she had no chance of ever getting out alive. The Governor would be merciless in his punishment.

Even the warm morning air could not bring her out of her funk. Birds chirped merrily as Samara walked around the clinic area with Alice shadowing her close by. The doctor had recommended she move about so as to not get stifled by the clinic's white walls and stale air. Alice was silent, staring off in the distance with a lost gaze. A different time seemed to flash before her eyes, maybe even reminiscing happier days devoid of so much death and despair.

Samara wished she could be so carefree at the moment. Alice lived a simple life. There was probably nothing on her mind except doing her appointed task. She had no worries that kept her from sound slumber. There was food, water, clothes and protection at her beck and call. The blond had no idea how hard it was out there or to be in Samara's situation, trapped in a foreign place by people that at a bat of an eyelash would wipe you off the face of the earth.

 _Please, Gods, let Merle get me out of here._

But if he did, what then? Once they got past the Wall and as far away from Woodbury as possible, what then? Samara absolutely could _not_ lead Merle back to the prison. That she had known from the moment this idea was born into her mind. She couldn't, in good consciousness, bring this savage beast to the group's sanctuary.

Daryl was dead. There was no one left in the group that had any warm, fuzzy feelings towards the older Dixon brother. There was no reason for her to bring Merle back. And as she had said, she only needed him to get out of Woodbury. Once they reached a car, Samara had every intention of parting ways with the man by any means necessary, even if that meant by death.

No one would know. Maybe she would divulge her secret to Rick, but that was about it. Revealing this to anyone else would be just a painful reminder of the younger Dixon.

But for this to happen, she needed a weapon.

Her eyes slid over to the pretty young woman, still enraptured by her thoughts. Where was the scalpel she stole from Milton's? It wasn't in her pants anymore, so that meant whoever undressed her had it.

Alice seemed to finally realize she was being stared at as she blinked out of her daze. A small, bashful smile lit up her face as she turned away embarrassed of being caught so unaware.

Samara rolled her eyes at the naïve gesture.

"I kinda envy you, you know." Alice finally spoke as her cornflower blue gaze returned to the older woman.

Samara's brows rose in doubt. "What for? My bruises or my dislocated shoulder?"

Which still hurt like a bitch, mind you.

"Your courage." The woman spoke sincerely with a strange awe about her. "You fought Dani without any fear of dyin'."

"And I lost. If Milton hadn't been there then I wouldn't be here."

"But you didn't go down without givin' it your all. Most women I know would have frozen solid just at the sight of the rifle." She bit her lip forlornly. "I know I would have."

"Trust me, when your back is against the wall, even you are capable of fighting back." Samara scoffed snidely. "Your gender doesn't mean jack shit."

"Maybe…" Alice rubbed her arms as a sudden chill seemed to overcome her. "I just know I couldn't have fought back like you did. I've never hit anyone in my life, not even a slap."

The Native's eyes narrowed. "Sheltered life, huh?"

"Somethin' like that…"

She seemed the type. Too well taken care of. Probably had been a student with a nice boyfriend and a head full of dreams that had no connection to the harsh reality, even before the virus.

Samara took a left turn and led them down an alley.

"Did you study medicine here in Georgia before the virus?"

Alice let out a small, awkward laugh. "Actually, I was studyin' interior design, but life had a funny way of changin' my path. I learn quickly. That's why Stevens took me under his wing. I just need to see his medical procedures one or twice to kinda get the hang of it."

Samara huffed. _I guess we all were different people before all this._

"Well, if I ever need an operation, I'm still going to rely on the old man."

"I don't blame you."

Alice relapsed back into silence, but Samara never let her eyes wander too far from her. She had some questions Alice needed answering. There was nobody around to hear anything as they walked deeper into the alley. Alice should be more careful of her surroundings, not lose herself in the midst of a conversation.

"Hey…" Samara stopped and turned to face the woman, features set in hard stone. "Were you the one that undressed me?"

Any semblance of a smile was wiped away as Alice stared with a hesitant gaze.

"Yeah."

Olive eyes narrowed keenly. If Alice tried to run, Samara would still overpower her even without the use of one arm. Alice was a meek mouse compared to her.

The blond shuffled on her feet as she gripped one arm in nervousness. "I guess you want that scalpel back, don't you?"

There was danger about.

Alice swallowed dryly as Samara's eyes shone with a predatory glint.

Digging through her cargo pants, the blond produced the silvery, sharp weapon. She took a hesitant step forward, her hand shaking.

"Here."

Samara's eyes traveled from the knife to the woman.

"You're giving it to me without a fuss?"

"I guess you need it more than I do." Alice smiled timidly. "Stevens doesn't know about it and even if he did, he wouldn't breathe a word." She took a deep breath as her brows furrowed. "Are…are you gonna hurt someone?"

"Only if I'm attacked." The Native took the offered stiletto and felt its familiar coolness on her skin. "This is for protection. I'm not going to be caught unprepared again."

"I understand. Just…please, don't kill anyone." The blond bit her lip again, this time afraid. "I know you probably don't have the best opinion of us, but not everyone in Woodbury is a bad person."

Samara snorted. That was the biggest crock of shit she'd ever heard and she'd heard plenty. "I've seen the way your _good_ people behave during the arena fights. I'm not blind, girl."

Alices's gaze turned downward in shame. Her voice came out weaker than before, so small and fragile that Samara had to strain her hearing. "We all lose our way sooner or later, but that doesn't make them unredeemable. They are good people at heart, they just…got swept by the wave."

A wave of madness and hopelessness with no chance to leave Woodbury and live to tell the tale. The residents of Woodbury were sheep, unable to survive without the shepherd's guidance. That was why they never left the Governor's side. A life of uncertainty out in the wide world, where death was waiting at every corner was not an appealing way to live the remainder of your days.

So, they began their routine stuck in this cage. Day after day until the monotony bled out their ears and they began to feel disgruntled with their dull lives. Cue the Governor and his idea for entertainment. Maybe at the beginning people were revolted, but with each viewing they became more and more accustomed, even learned to enjoy it because there was no other distraction from the inevitable fact that their lives now revolved around this small enclosed space with no chance of the world ever righting itself.

"Why are you helping me?" Samara was deeply curios. This woman was effectively giving her a weapon that she could just stab her with right now. Why so much trust in a stranger?

"Because we all deserve a chance to live past these walls." Alice breathed in deeply, her voice gentle. "Lord knows, some of us should escape this place."

 _Aah…I see._

"You've tried before, haven't you?"

Alice jumped with a startle. She resembled a deer frozen in the headlights. Her eyes darted around in anxiety, fearful of prying ears.

"Yeah…Last year, me and Stevens and two others." The blonde grimaced at the memory. "We didn't make it far, though, and we paid the price for it."

"There's more to that story than meets the eye."

She bit her lip.

 _A tick, perhaps?_

It took Alice immense courage to open her mouth and relate her story, but Samara was patient as her words sometimes stumbled and long pauses caught in between.

"When the Governor first arrive here, it didn't take long until we learned what kind of man he was. Strange deaths occurred with people that didn't want him to lead us. 'Accidents' he called them." She scoffed bitterly. "A load of shit that was. We had to end the Governor's regime because we knew that sooner or later, he would bring us to ruin."

Alice sighed as she looked towards the sky with abandon.

"A closed loop system is destined to self-destruct…" Alice mused. The words didn't seem to be hers, just a distant memory that echoed through her mouth. "That's somethin' Stevens said."

"One night, we and some others who also agreed that the Governor needed to leave, met and planned. Durin' one of the arena fights we were supposed to kidnap the Governor and take him deep in the woods where he would've been executed." Alice closed her eyes in painful remembrance. "I don't know when or how, but he caught wind of our plan and made it harder than it was supposed to be. Two of his men followed, but we managed to capture them only for them to escape durin' the drive into the woods. We fought. Bullets showered everywhere." Her breath quickened. "In our fury we failed to notice the undead that followed the gunshots. Some of us died. In the end, we had to compromise, we had to work together." Right now, she looked downright miserable. "But in doin' that we sealed our fate. The Governor didn't kill us, but made us chop up the dead bodies of our friends as punishment." Alice swallowed thickly as she cupped her mouth. Her pupils dilated in horror and Samara could almost see the images projected onto the woman's eyes. "I can still hear their flesh bein' cut, the sound of blood rushin'—"

"I get it." Samara sparred her the pain. She also wanted Alice to retain her rational faculties and not choke on her tears.

Alice took deep breaths as she hugged herself tightly. Like a child afraid of a storm, she comforted herself as tears pooled on her lower lids. The memory must have been traumatic for the woman.

"H-He could have killed us, but he didn't." Alice grimaced as her lips pursed. "He makes it his duty to remind us that at every opportunity."

What a story…But it just reinforced Samara's perception of the one called Phillip Blake. She _definitely_ did not want this man to ever set his eyes on the prison. He would most likely want it for himself, damn the inhabitants.

"Who else survived from your group?" Alice had alluded that there had been more than just her and the good doctor.

"Karen and Martinez."

Samara's brows rose incredulously. "…Martinez?"

She had not expected that.

"He wasn't always the Governor's lapdog. Back then he had no choice but to pull back and save himself. As I said, we all have to adapt somehow. Martinez was more useful alive than dead to the Governor and he took that offer."

He can't be trusted then _,_ were Samara's thoughts. After all those months, Martinez was probably indoctrinated to abide by the Governor's rule. He wouldn't risk a second mistake again.

Samara's shrewd gaze returned to the blond woman. As willowy as she looked, Alice had some backbone to her, otherwise she would have never attempted treason.

The Native's mind reeled. The group needed a doctor. A real one, not the animal kind. Especially now that Lori's due date was near. Perhaps…

"Tell me, Alice." Samara spoke softly, beguilingly. "Would you risk it again if given the opportunity?"

Alice shifted uncertainly on her feet. Her chest rose faster than intended and Samara could see the struggle that was going on in her head. It wasn't an easy decision, not by a long shot. Samara wasn't even certain she could get her _and_ Stevens out in one piece, but she was willing to try. She might as well bring a gift back to the prison after losing Maggie, Oscar and…Daryl.

—It was the least she could do to stave off the survivor's guilt.

Alice lifted her eyes and Samara knew her answer. It was in those cornflower-blue eyes hardened by firm resolve.

"Yes."

* * *

The sun was lowering over the horizon.

Merle smoked his cigarette casually as he approached a section of the wall. The sound of metal striking bounced across the abandoned buildings surrounding the area.

The big boss was entertaining himself with a session of golf, his targets being the biters on the other side.

The Georgia man's mind had been in a haze ever since his discussion with the Indian. To think, the way to his brother was just right beneath his nose and yet he couldn't reach for it. His hands were tied by loyalty to the Governor. He almost wished the squaw hadn't had told him because then he wouldn't be stuck in this harsh dilemma.

Time was running out and he needed to make a decision.

He whistled as the man's next strike managed to topple one particular geek. "Pretty good!"

The Governor positioned his next ball as Merle climbed the wall. "We should visit Augusta. Take only the woman and let them play. It'll be historic."

"And break decades of tradition."

"Absolutely." The Governor smiled in good humor as he striked the ball sending it far away, but missing the walker by a few inches. He tsked.

"I don't know, some things are worth holdin' on to." Merle's smile dissipated as took on a more grave countenance. He was here for a reason, one that didn't involve old white men's preferred past-time. "You know, I was thinkin' of takin' a few of the men out on a scoutin' mission later on this week."

"For what?"

"My brother. I wanna try goin' south this time."

Merle wasn't about to accept the woman's offer just yet. He wanted to exhaust all his options and head out towards Dani's and his crew hideout. He had said there had been another with the woman. Perhaps his corpse or the belongings Dani no doubt stripped from the woman might give him some hindsight into his brother's location.

He couldn't just betray this man before him. The Governor had given him a second life, had brought him from the brink of death and given him a purpose. He couldn't just squander that on the words of a crafty woman who would do anything to get out of Woodbury, even if meant blowing them all to Hell.

He could see the ferocity in her eyes and knew she was capable of it if given the chance.

The Governor placed another ball and readied himself for the strike. "You can track with the best of 'em, but findin' your brother is like a needle in a haystack. He could be anywhere."

"I know my brother." Merle stressed. "If he's out there, I'll be able to find him."

"Yes, you've said that before." The Governor looked over the clustered road ahead and spotted his next target. "But what if someone gets hurt during this search? A couple of months ago we lost a great number of men on one of your searches. And where did that lead you? To a bigger hostile group where only you came back alive and Crowley and Tim got captured." His eyes were like scorching hot steel. "I should have never let you go out there to save 'em. Not in full winter when our sources were scarce and we were barely survivin'. We should have just cut our losses and moved on."

Every time Merle wanted to go on an expedition for his brother, the Governor laid this on him. Damn those bitches to Hell and back. If it hadn't been for them…

"Then I'll go on my own." Merle wouldn't back down, though. He _had_ to try.

"I get what you're feeling, I really do, but I can't risk it." Metal hit the golf ball with a resounding strike. "I need you here. This whole place would fall apart without you."

"This is my brother." Merle was on the verge of letting out the beast inside him. Must he be reduced to pleading like a mongrel? Why couldn't the man just let him have his way for once?

The Governor sighed as he settled his weight on the golf club, this time giving Merle his full attention. Merle was a stubborn bastard when he wanted to be and the Governor knew he wouldn't back down from his idea.

"I'll tell you what…" But he had to give the man a bone just to reassure him. "When you actually get any concrete information, I'll go with you myself. I'm not riskin' another aimless journey of yours. Alright?"

Merle breathed in deeply. This wasn't what he had wanted.

"Can I ask you somethin'?"

Governor nodded.

"What if my brother is still with the group that left me behind? What if we find them one day and he won't leave?"

This was something Merle was afraid of. It was constantly at the back of his mind, whispering relentlessly with an ominous undertone. He wanted to believe Daryl remained with the group out of safety in numbers, but that one thought wouldn't leave him be and it made him doubt.

"That's up to you, Merle." The Governor shrugged languidly. "Force him, kidnap him, try to persuade him, what have you. I won't intervene in that sort of situation."

"But what if the others respond hostilely?"

The Governor's gaze narrowed astutely. "You mean if your brother chooses to fight alongside them…Then you should be very firm on whose side you fight on. Blood is blood, right? You'll have to answer to where your loyalties lie."

The man hid it well, but Merle could spot the hint of malevolence behind that sharp gaze. The wrong answer could mean his life.

"Here."

There was no other solution Merle could give and no other he wanted to. But right now, he was the furthest away from being pleased. Once again, he was banned from finding his only family. The last thing that meant something to him in these terrible times.

Merle nodded and the Governor went back to playing.

Merle left the Wall with a dark countenance. If the Governor wouldn't help him, then he'll just have to take matters into his own hands.

* * *

Samara sat on the windowsill of the clinic's bedding area and watched the sun go down with an air of despondency. After her walk with Alice, her shoulder had started acting up again and now she held a bag of ice to it to sooth her pained nerves. Stevens had said that three weeks needed to pass before she could take off the sling. The news left Samara with a bad taste in her mouth.

The door opened and in walked Stevens, only this time something seemed off. There was a solem air about him, an angry one that put Samara on edge.

The man stopped next to her, his nostrils flaring with bottled-up ire.

"Samara, I ain't never done anythin' to you before. So please, refrain yourself from givin' false hope to my assistant."

 _Ah…_

"She told you about our conversation."

"Yes, and I advise you to stay the hell away from now on. I don't care what you're up to, but don't drag that girl into your future mess."

He was beyond pissed. Samara had expected this. Alice wouldn't have been able to keep her mouth shut and Samara hadn't even wanted her too. The Native wanted Stevens in on her plan and out of this place, him more than Alice. He was the central piece; Alice was just optional. But from what she could see, Stevens was not on the same page. Not by a long shot.

"Don't you want out? Both you and Alice can come with me."

"There ain't no way out." The man said conclusively. "There never was, not while that man is still alive."

"Why are you so afraid?"

Stevens took a deep breath as his lips pursed. "Because I don't want to see more people I care about die right before my eyes. I have enough blood on my hands to last me a lifetime."

"You can't live in this constant fear, doctor." Samara spoke calmly, trying to maintain a levelness in their conversation despite Stevens heightened emotional state. "I know that man is a monster, but sooner or later you'll have to confront that. He's only human."

 _He can be killed._

"I can't…" The man took off his glasses and massaged the bridge of his nose. He was too old for this…"You don't know him like I do. I've seen that cruelty in him, felt it first hand. Not even the undead can scare me this much."

He wasn't going to join her. That much was certain. It was in his steady posture and unwavering terror. The old man was too afraid to risk it all again based on the uncertainties of a stranger. Samara understood him, but unlike Stevens she had no choice but to put her faith in Merle to get her out of here, unknowing if he had any intention of following through or handing her her execution notice.

In the end, life was a gamble. It depended on you to have the courage and strength of mind to take it.

"Then I pity you." Samara was not one to be weak nor was she one to play it safe.

"I don't give a damn what you think, Samara." Stevens glared, angry at her and at his own cowardice. "What I care about is the well-being of that girl and you will not lead her to her death. Stay away from Alice. If you keep speakin' to her about leavin' I will have a talk with the Governor."

Samara nodded.

He wouldn't breath a word to that man, even if Alice decided to rebel and leave his side. He just wasn't the type. But Samara let him have his way. She wasn't one to force anyone once they made up their mind.

Stevens nodded hesitantly and left her side.

The Native returned back to gazing in the distant red sky.

 _Samara 0. Stevens 1._

 _Damn_ …She lost a skilled doctor. Samara had been very hopeful in Stevens joining her side, but now she just had to consolidate herself with her own escape.

Her mind wandered over to Milton. How was he? Did he recover from his trauma?

—Would he leave with her?

She doubted it. That man was on friendly terms with the Governor, arriving in Woodbury with him and even refusing to say anything about his past. He was too brainwashed to be trusted. Her plan of tempting him over to her side burned and scattered to the wind.

 _I guess that leaves me with Merle._

Samara sighed in dissatisfaction. She just hoped he would hurry up already.

The Native's fingers clenched tightly as the sun hid behind the trees and hills in the distance, leaving her to the uncertainty of the night.

 _Please, Gods…Give me this one ray of hope._

* * *

Smoke coiled around the darkness like silver specters. The clear, white moon was the only natural light illuminating the murky room, outlining the form laying casually on the bed.

Merle rested with one hand behind his head and the other on his chest, barely even smoking his cigarette as his mind wandered.

His mind was on the squaw.

The woman was a sly shrew for one, unwilling to give him even the tiniest speck of information concerning his brother. His only lead, outside the woman, he was barred from going to. The only options left for him was to either listen to the woman or rough her up until she spoke and that would lead to a whole lot of unanswered questions.

Merle took a healthy drag out of his cigarette.

 _Loyalty._

The Governor questioned his loyalty. He didn't trust him with the moment when he'll come face to face with his brother. Did he think he will just up and leave? Did he have that little faith in Merle?

Merle had no intention of ever betraying the man, but after so many months of fruitless searches he now had a chance. A straight way paved in silver towards his brother and he just had to reach out and take it. He _desperately_ wanted to. Not only because he'll get to see his baby brother again, but because he would also get the chance to exact his revenge for his missing hand.

Despite that tiny doubt, Merle didn't believe that Daryl would get attached to those people. He probably saw them as a means to an end. His brother wasn't stupid. Surviving in a group was much more safer than on your own. The reason why Merle was with Woodbury. He had had his chance to leave after he had recovered, but he chose not to because he saw the benefits of living with a larger group. Besides, he had everything he needed at his disposal here. Why go back to scavenging and dying from lack of supplies?

Merle was sure than when Daryl saw him alive and kicking he would come to his side and when that happened, Merle intended to lead Woodbury straight to the sheriff and his merry band.

The angels will sing once he saw his boot on the man's throat.

Playful smoke rings blew out from his mouth and Merle smirked like a sly fox.

He just had to play along with the squaw. Let her believe she was the one in charge when all the while Merle's real intentions will hide in the shadows until it was time to strike. The Governor will forgive him once he learned of his entire plan…he hoped. If the Atlanta group had a place they holed up in, he could bring their provisions as well as bodies for the arena. Trophies to soften the blow.

 _Yes…_ This was his plan of attack. He will accept the woman's offer.

The smirk turned into a real smile.

It was high time to see his brother again.

* * *

Samara was reading a crime novel late into the night when the door opened.

Her breath hitched at the sight of the person.

It was Merle.

He stopped beside her bed and looked down on her long and hard. While outwardly Samara was as grave as ever, she was doing mental cartwheels in happiness at the man's obvious choice.

"I'm in."

Samara closed the book, a smirk playing on her lips.

* * *

"How will we get out?"

Samara sat cross-legged while Merle was on the chair beside her bed. They were overlooking a hand-drawn map of Woodbury on the preface pages of the book.

"There's a loose space in the southern part of the fence." The man pointed it on the map. "It's kept intact with wires, but it's no problem cuttin' through them. We'll use the cover of darkness to leave. Ain't no other time of day when we can. There are no people on the streets except for the guards."

"Won't they recognize me?" She didn't exactly match the people of Woodbury. Even during night time she stuck out like a sore thumb.

"No, because they'll think you're someone else." He looked her up and down and nodded to himself. "I'll get you some of Eric's old clothes. You're about the same height as him."

"Will I get a weapon?"

Merle snorted cynically. "Hell no. I'll be the one armed, you just keep your mouth shut and follow."

Samara sneered, but opted to keep quiet. She wasn't here to feed his desire for argument.

His plan sounded simple enough, but it was never that easy. A hitch always happened that sent every well thought-out plan into complete disarray. It was just Murphy's Law waving in acknowledgement.

"Could we take others with us?" She still wouldn't give up on bringing the doctor and assistant. If there was even the slightest chance…

"You insane?!" Merle barked like a mad dog, before lowering his voice to a hiss. Despite the building being empty tonight save the woman, he was still cautious. "I'm riskin' our asses here and you want to bring a party with you? What pipe have you been smokin'? Two people sneakin' through the dark are harder to spot. Three is a crowd." He snorted as he glared at her derisively. "And I thought you were smart."

Samara was barely able to contain the fist she wanted to fly into the man's face. He was pushing her limits even more severely than Daryl ever could. No wonder no one in the Atlanta group had liked him.

"…Who?" Despite rebuking her so harshly, the man was still curious enough to ask.

"The doctor and the nurse."

"Alice and Stevens?" Merle scoffed, before grinning knowingly. "Should've guessed. Ain't no secret they ain't one to follow the Governor by their own free will." His smirk faded leaving only a solid, straight line. "Answer's still no. Stevens and Alice don't know shit about layin' low or survivin' out there. They'll just be a burden. One I ain't riskin'."

"I get it, asshole." Samara hissed like a feral cat. "You don't need to throw a bitch fit."

"Don't piss me off, squaw." Merle glared disdainfully at her. "The only thing keepin' you in one piece is the knowledge of my brother's whereabouts. There's nothing more I want right now than to pry that information out of you by _any_ means necessary, but I got my hands tied. "

"Trust me, the feeling is mutual. The fact that I have to rely on you to escape is making me physically nauseous." Samara grimaced nastily to show her disgust with him. "When will we leave?"

"Two days from now. I ain't got no watch duty so I'm free to sleep. If we do it while I'm on guard they'll be wonderin' how many hours I need to take a deuce."

"Yes…" Samara's eyes flattened with dry humor. "We wouldn't want them to think you ate Mexican food."

She breathed in deeply. It was a risky plan, one that could doom them at the slightest mistake. Everything had to go accordingly. They just had to hide in the shadows and stay away from any curious eyes. Merle knew the best spots to hide in. He knew the guards, their ticks and how they worked on the Wall. He knew how to get around them towards their goal without being spotted and even if they did, Samara could just say she wanted to fuck the bastard somewhere secluded and outdoorsy. She had a _pretty_ good notion that they would a hundred percent believe that. Merle seemed the type of lecherous dickhead that would go for a quickie in public.

"Is there any chance they could follow us beyond the Wall?"

"Like trackin'?" Merle scrounged his nose at the mere thought. "Hell no. I'm the only one here who knows how to. I've taught Martinez some things, but he can't hold a candle to me. Even with cars they won't be able to find us. I know how to survive in the wilds and I got a feelin' you do to. We'll stay as far away from the roads as possible."

"On foot is going to be difficult. The distance here to your brother is too big."

Way too big for her convalescent self to brave that open space.

"Just how big?"

"Enough not to go on foot." Samara narrowed her eyes. He wasn't going to get a clue out of her. "We'll need a car."

"Then we'll find a town on the way, but we need to put as much distance between us and Woodbury on foot in those hours of darkness. People here wake up early. We'd have an eight hour head's start."

"That's good enough. What about food and water?"

"I'll take care of that." He then leered like a hungry wolf, drinking the sight of her up. "Don't worry your _sweet_ ass, Pocahontas. Merle won't let it starve."

 _Oh dear Gods, please kill me._

Samara couldn't even dignify that with an eye roll. He was beyond cuss words. Thank the Gods Daryl had never taken up that particular trait growing up. It would have been a major turn off.

"When the time comes, just crawl out through the shitter window." He pointed towards the door on the other side of the room. "It's wide enough for your skinny ass to crawl through. I'll be waitin' for you there."

The Native nodded. The window was constantly kept open and Samara had eye measured it several times during her time spent in there.

"…What happens if we get caught?"

That was the biggest and most important question. Samara knew that the answer to that question was an ugly one, but she still wanted to know. Call it morbid curiosity.

Merle's gaze took on a sharp countenance. There was an ominous luster to them that promised terror and agony.

"You better pray to your Gods that don't happen, sweetheart." The shadows creased over his face making him appear demonic. "You _don't_ want to know the answer to that question."

Without another word, Merle got up to leave.

"We'll talk again soon. Act like you've been actin' this whole time, meanin' with that stick up your ass. Don't change anythin' because while Shumpert may look like a walkin' meat sack, he's more sharp-eyed than you'd think."

"Shumpert is still tailing me?" Samara was flabbergasted. She hadn't even seen hide nor hair of him ever since she was entrusted into the doctor's care.

"You thought that if you get to sleep here that you were off the hook?" He scoffed at her naivete. "Governor don't trust that easily, hun."

Samara flopped back onto the bed once the door to the room closed and she was left to the silence of the night. With lethargic movements she crawled into a fetal position and remained that way, letting the dread that had been boiling in her stomach for days now move up her throat.

She had a chance now, so why didn't that make her happy?

Why did Samara feel like she just exchanged pacts from one devil to another?

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_ All this plotting and planning makes my head spin. Samara in one corner with her own plans while Merle is in the other with his own devious schemes. This is like pitting two wolves against each other, just waiting for them to make the first move and tear into each other's throats.

I can't wait :)


	40. Get to the Choppa!

Samara watched the people of Woodbury from underneath her cap.

Sitting on the front porch of her soon to be former housing gave her an undeniable exhilaration. This was her last day here. She had been patient these past two days, acting no different than what she used to. Samara had seen Shumpert from the corner of her eyes, always watching and always following, and it was really starting to bother her. She felt like she couldn't take a piss without the man knowing about it.

Samara sighed as she let her head fall betwwen her legs. She could barely contain her happiness anymore. Just a few hours more and she'll be out of this godforsaken hellhole and on to the prison. But with this information came a wave of uneasiness. Once back with the others she'll have to explain everything—the deaths that resulted and what she had to do to keep herself alive all this time. Recounting the tale of Daryl's death will be an ugly venture. She just hoped she wouldn't start crying in front of them.

The Native peered warily at her useless arm swaddled in a sling. She dreaded the moment when she'll have to get rid of Merle. Not because it was an unpleasant job, but because she didn't know if in her current condition she could do it. Merle's brute strength overshadowed hers, even more now that she had one arm out of order. In the end, force might not be the answer. Samara would just have to give him the old slip.

The woman's eyes rose and she once again surveyed her surroundings. As she looked over the oblivious residents, the only thing she felt towards them was pure _loathing_. These animals have thrived on the bones of so many people just out surviving. Some had been innocent, some had merited all the pain inflicted upon them, but in the end these people had profited from their gruesome deaths.

—She hoped they all got eaten by walkers.

Samara's stomach clenched as she spotted the Governor approaching. It was amazing at how much dread the man could incur with just his mere presence. The feel of her scalpel tucked safely hidden away in her sling was more tangible now than ever.

The man stopped just at the foot of the stairs and watched her calmly, a small smile playing on his lips. That put her on edge more than his cool disposition. The man had a treacherous smile, after all. Coupled with his unreadable intentions, it only made Samara sweat bullets.

"Samara."

"Governor."

He bent over and inspected her face. Samara had to steel herself as the man touched and poked her injured arm, unaware or maybe generally unconcerned that he was creating her discomfort.

"The bruises look alright." He retreated once he got his fill, thank the gods. "How are you feelin'?"

" _Sore_." She got the point across firmly. "My shoulder hurts like hell."

"Yeah, Stevens told me about your condition." The man crossed his arms, ignoring her earlier quip. "Said you ain't up to anythin' vigorous, but I was wonderin' what you think of some Wall duty?"

"Wondering?"

"More like sayin'."

That didn't spell good for her. Samara didn't need this type of interference, not now when she was so close to leaving.

"I thought you didn't trust me."

"It's better than lettin' you sit around doin' nothin'. If you're part of the community you might wanna start actin' like one."

Samara knuckles withened as she gripped her fingers to the point where she felt them groan under the strain. Did this man have a sixth sense when it came to her? Just when she was about to leave, this man put the brakes on her little plan.

"First shift is today. In an hour if you want, actually. The guards work in eight hour shifts. If you wanna start this mornin', then you'll be replaced for the night and you'll pick up your duties again tomorrow evenin'."

"Sounds good."

Samara didn't even pause to consider. The hours worked in her favor. If she accepted the shift for this morning she won't have to worry about having anyone knocking on her door tonight, demanding she take up watch.

"Will I get any weapons?" Hope always did die last.

The Governor chuckled as if having been asked a silly question, which probably was from his perspective. "You'll just spot the biters if they approach and the rest will be handled by the others."

Samara nodded. At least this way, time will go by faster.

"Alright then." Governor smiled in light triumph. "Get to the main gate and tell them I sent you. Martinez will know what to do."

Samara found relief only once the man was out of sight and out of mind.

 _Wall duty, huh?_

She could do that without a fuss. She just had an hour left to kill.

It was time, wasn't it? She couldn't prolong it any longer. The hours were speeding past swiftly and soon it'll be too dark and too late for her one last stop in this _happy little town_.

Samara sighed as she rose to her feet.

* * *

Knock-knock.

Samara had to wait a few minutes until the light shuffle of feet reached her ears. The door opened with a slow motion and Milton's face partially peaked from behind the wooden structure.

Samara internally winced.

He looked _bad_.

"Hey."

"Samara." Milton's voice was so low, barely even noticeable. There was no emotion to him. Like a disheveled doll, swaddled in blankets. He hadn't bathed in a while, that was certain from the smell. Poor bastard, he hadn't even tried taking care of himself since he shot Dani. There was even a five o'clock shadow all over his jaw.

—Depression was a killer when it wanted to be.

Without another word, Milton retreated back inside his apartment, leaving the door open. Samara took a deep breath to steel herself against what awaited her.

Stepping inside the dim home, Samara analyzed the area. The blinds were shut tight leaving no amount of traitorous morning light to illuminate even one inch of the house. There was leftover food strewn around and Milton didn't seem to have any intention of cleaning it up.

 _He really let himself go._

"You look like shit."

Milton huffed dryly as he settled back in his armchair by the window.

"I guess nothing escapes you."

 _Was that sarcasm?_

Samara sat beside him in the free chair. There was a small coffee table before them and Samara almost smiled at the many wet teabags abandoned on a plate. Milton must have retreated into his tranquil world of tea.

"Have you been holed up in here all this time?"

"I just…don't feel like talking with anyone. Or seeing them." He smiled through pursed lips. A sad, dejected smile that could never reach his now dead eyes. "I like the quiet better."

"I know, but it's not good for you." Milton was a lone wolf like Samara, but he wasn't as strong as her. Killing someone must have screwed him up royally. "You need someone right now. A friend."

"I don't have any friends." He said, not in the least bit miserable. He was just used to the idea. "Well, there is the Governor, but he's caught up in his own problems. He doesn't have time for me right now."

"Don't you have any family here? Someone that came with you when the virus hit?" It was a long shot, but Samara had to ask.

"No, my parents died a long time ago and I was an only child." His eyes stared distantly out through the crack in the window's shutters. "I've lived all my life like this, dealing with stress and joy and sadness on my own is not something I'm a stranger too. I think having company in these times would make me more uncomfortable than anything."

Samara sighed in powerlessness. She had no idea on what to do. Giving people a shoulder to cry on was not her strongest point. Best she could do was listen, but Samara had the irksome feeling that Milton was the same. He listened more than talked and as such, she was at a loss.

But there was a reason she came here and she needed to get it off her chest. He _needed_ to know.

"I just wanted to thank you, Milton, for saving my life." She smiled genuinely, something she hadn't done since her capture two weeks ago. But for him, she had the strength for one last smile. "I know what you did must've been very hard for you, but I am grateful."

Milton then turned to her, a melancholy about him that sent a pang of hurt through her chest. He was a blind fool, but she didn't want to see him like this.

"How do you do it? Take life so easily without an ounce of guilt after, even if it is to save someone?" His lips down turned as he wrapped the blanket around him more tightly. "How do you wake up the next morning and just go about with your daily life?"

A tough question that he probably wouldn't like the answer to, but Samara wasn't about to sugar coat it.

"I'm not like you Milton. I haven't lived sheltered from the atrocities of life. I've been in war zones and I've seen crime scenes, each more gruesome than the next. I'm used to death. This virus and the aftermaths of it isn't anything new to me." The things she'd seen was enough for ten lives. Most of them she could still vividly remember, burned into her skin like deep rooted scars. The undead…they were child's play compared to what humans were capable off. "Killing people…you get used to it after a while. You grow numb and view it as nothing more than an obstacle." Indifference was the killer of mankind in the end. "Pray to your god Milton that that never happens to you. You don't want to end up like me."

Milton seemed to digest her words with an air of clearheadedness.

"So, there is no remedy. Nothing that can help me…" He scoffed, feeling the void get wider with each passing moment. "Should've known."

Samara hated that kind of talk, mainly because it reminded of her. When she mentally and emotionally crashed when she realized John was dead and again when Daryl's death finally caught up to her.

"There is. You just put one foot in front of the next. You keep on going even when you feel your legs threaten to drop underneath you or when your heart weights too heavily. Even if the world comes crashing down atop your head, you must endure." She moved from her chair onto his armrest, much closer than he probably wanted. Milton shrunk away from her warmth, but didn't shun the soothing hand on his shoulder. "You have to find the will inside you to keep on going. The alternative is not something you want to experience. You've lived up until this point. Don't let this be the end."

"I wish I had an ounce of that resolve."

"You do. Otherwise you wouldn't have shot Dani." Her fingers gently squeezed. It wasn't much, but it was all she could do to give him comfort. "You just have to believe in yourself, Milton. There's more to you than meets the eye. _I_ believe in you."

He was a late bloomer. The man just had to step out of his protective shell and smell the putrid roses. He needed to finally understand that he needed to grow a tougher hide to confront this world…To confront the demons that roamed the Earth, undead or otherwise.

Soft fingers touched her skin and Samara, despite her initial reluctance, accepted his grasp. His hand was so pale compared to hers, his fingers soft and not callous like hers. Different backgrounds, different lives, different set of skills.

 _The sun and moon…_

They sat like this for a while, sharing the comfortable silence. Samara wasn't even infuriated at the skin contact anymore. She was _glad,_ actually. She hadn't felt a friendly gesture in a long time and like a starved animal, she savored it for as long as she could. Tonight will be a decisive point. There was no turning back anymore. A warm hand to hold was what she needed to drive away those demons haunting her mind with endless doubts.

Milton suddenly let go of her and readjusted in his seat, pushing back his glasses and fussing over himself as his cheeks reddened. It almost made Samara smile a second time.

 _There's the Milton I remember._

"How are you?" He looked to her shoulder encased in black cloth with a hint of concern. "I'm sorry, I didn't even ask that."

Samara waved it off. "It's nothing that won't heal."

She was better off than him. A physical wound healed completely with time. A mental one didn't. But if he was lucky, he could forget. Dani's death could just become static at the back of his mind, only audible when one searched for it.

Samara raised herself from the chair. She said her peace, it was time to go.

"Thanks again."

Milton nodded and smiled at the woman. It was a small smile, but it was kind and it sparked a glimmer of hope in the woman's heart. Milton will be fine. He was too stubborn to whiter away and die. Right now, he just needed some time to come to terms with his actions. Samara hoped her words gave him some relief or at least spared him from his guilt trip.

The man had nothing to be ashamed of. He did what anyone else would have done in that situation. He protected someone—

Samara frowned at her train of thought.

 _He cares about?_

* * *

Every few seconds Samara took a drag out of her cigarette, surrounding herself in a thick fog of grey smoke. The sun burned on her back as she stood on a beer crate observing the empty street before the Wall. No activity except for a squirrel that gingerly hopped around with nuts in its jaws. Martinez had thought about shooting it, but lost interest at the last moment opting for solve a crossword puzzle instead.

If the Governor had told her it would be this boring she would have never accepted the job. This was even worse than the prison tower. At least there she was surrounded by people she knew. The Wall was a foreign entity to her as well as its occupants. Except for Martinez, her former shadow.

Samara glanced at him from underneath her cap. She still couldn't wrap her mind around the fact that this man had concocted a plot to assassinate the Governor at one point in time. Had he been really forgiven? And for what reason? The Governor wasn't the type to let others that wronged him live…unless it was as a warning. Or out of his own twisted sense of humor.

"Does it ever get interesting?"

Martinez looked up from his puzzle with the same lackluster typical of him. He always seemed to be bored of everything around him, viewing it as just a mere hindrance to his existence.

"Nope."

His focus settled back on the puzzle, finding it more stimulating that their mundane conversation.

"Two or three biters is the quota for the day." Martinez said as he furrowed his brows in concentration over a particular challenging word. "More than that and it's a holiday. Rarely happens, though."

"Don't you ever get tired of this?"

He shrugged. "It's the job."

His droning answer were beginning to irk her.

"What did you do before the virus?"

This time, a slither of perceptiveness slipped into his normally dull eyes as he gazed at her from his periphery.

"Live."

Samara sighed in exasperation. "You're a boring fucker. Has anyone ever told you that?"

Martinez snorted, a hint of a smirk on his lips. "I'm actually quite a cool dude. Can't blame me for being like this with you. I don't _know_ you."

Well, he got her there, Samara thought. It wasn't like she was anymore friendly than he was.

Returning her attention to the bleak scenery, Samara threw her now extinguished cigarette bud. She wondered if she could pawn another one off the Hispanic, but she was doubtful. Martinez had reluctantly given her the last one. Seconds were probably out of the question.

Samara sighed loudly as she readjusted her cap. She was actually sweating a waterfall under the sun's merciless rays.

Scritch-scratch went the ball-point pen over the yellowed out, worn pages.

Her breath was audible as Samara panted like a dehydrated dog.

Clang. Clang.

That fucking squirrel was now banging nuts on the hood of an abandoned car.

Samara's teeth gritted. When was a lightning bolt when you needed one?

As she focused on the banging of the woodland critter's, a new sound entered the spectrum of her hearing. Samara was so focused on the animal's activities that she almost missed it—a tiny heartbeat against the sky.

A sharp turn and Samara's heard was pointed towards the heavens. The ever vigilant Martinez noticed her brusque motion and paused from his game.

"What is it?"

"Shhh!"

 _What was that?_

It was so low that she could barely discern it. Like a memory that stuck on her tongue, Samara felt the familiarity of the sound but couldn't quite place it. But what she did know was that it was coming from the north.

Samara slowly rose from her seat, her attention grounded onto her discovery.

Martinez followed her gaze, but couldn't see anything. The sky was clear with barely any clouds, but there was something otherwise the woman wouldn't have reacted so strongly. His eyes widened once he heard it too.

"What is that?"

 _There._

It was a speck in the horizon. A tiny pebble against the vast, endless blue. But it couldn't fool Samara—

"Fuck me…"

Now, as it stalked closer, she recognized the sound by heart. A familiar turn of metal wings that she had spent countless years around, sometimes even still dreaming it at night.

Samara smiled in disbelief.

"It's a helicopter."

Martinez's eyes widened in awe. The other guards on the wall were now aware of the approaching metal behemoth and looked at in wonder. It was undeniable what thoughts ran through their heads—Was it the cavalry? Were they being saved?

No, unfortunately.

—Because the helicopter was going down.

Samara could see the light smoke trailing behind it. That combined with the distinctive sound of the propeller's dying moments was an indicator that it was minutes away from giving its last breath.

"It's going down."

"You can tell from here?" Martinez looked at her in incredulity. The distance was quite enormous.

"No, but I can hear it."

As soon as it became visible, the Woodbury guards could see the way it wobbled in the air. With each passing minute, the helicopter lowered towards the ground. At this point, Samara could hear the engine straining to keep the large aircraft in the air.

"It's out of fuel." The Native finally realized its problem. She'd flown helicopters with barely any juice left in them, even crashed once because of it. That adventure left her with a permanent scar on her chin. Having a steel bar narrowly run through her skull had been one of the closest brushes with death that she had had during her military career.

"Is it military?"

Samara scoffed as she squinted against the sun. "No, it's a Eurocopter. I've seen them used by police, corporations and news stations before."

Martinez and Samara watched as the helicopter lowered until it disappeared behind the tree's crowns. A loud boom reverberated across the forest and fields, giving them a small jolt.

Neither of them realized it, but at that moment both Samara and Martinez synchronized their thoughts _perfectly_ — _the crash site can't be more than a few kilometers away._

Martinez swiftly left her side, jumping the Wall and running down the street, shouting orders towards some other armed men that followed him. The Governor was most likely his next stop, but Samara just couldn't keep her eyes from the last spot she saw the helicopter.

So many questions and no answers—Who had been piloting it? Where were they going? Where had they been flying from?

But with the unexpected appearance of the helicopter came the awful realization that the situation had changed for the worst.

"Shit…"

This wasn't good. Samara was supposed to leave tonight with Merle. This helicopter just ruined that chance, especially if the party that will be undoubtedly sent out found any survivors. Merle would be indispensable to the Governor until the situation was resolved. Everyone was now on high alert.

Biting her lip until blood pooled, Samara realized that they'll have to delay their escape for the time being.

 _Goddammit!_

* * *

Glenn stared in the distance with wide eyes and a gaping maw.

"Are you seeing this or is it my imagination?"

He turned towards his companions who wore varying degrees of surprise and shock on their faces. Him, Rick and Michonne had been scurrying for supplies, additional to searching for signs of their missing people when they heard what sounded like distant drums banging continuously.

"No…It's a helicopter, alright."

Rick looked in wonder as the aircraft flew in the distance, leaving a trail of white smoke behind. This had been an unexpected turn in their day, one that even his wildest imagination couldn't have concocted. After these past couple of weeks of restless searching and general hopelessness, this discovery gave them a small sense of elation. This was the flash of light within the unforgiving darkness.

"Holy shit! I can't believe this!" Glenn jumped in joy as his eyes remained glued to the sky. "Is it military?"

"It doesn't look it." Michonne narrowed her eyes against the glaring sun.

But as the discovery gave them a sense of exhilaration, it also brought them a sense of dread as the helicopter continued on its path. _Away_ from them.

"Shit, it's not comin' this way. We have to follow it."

The former sheriff picked up the pace as he ran towards the car.

"What if we just start a fire, a really big one?" Glenn shouted as he ran alongside the Kentucky man, Michonne not too far behind.

"Takes too much time. Come on!"

The trio gathered in the car without any further questions and sped off after the helicopter. It led them south, away from Newnan and down the highway.

"Is this a wise idea? Going after it?"

Rick looked through the rear-view mirror. Michonne did not look pleased by this change in plans, but they could not just ignore it. He knew the woman wanted to keep on searching for her their missing friends. Lord knew, so did Rick, but they had to know the helicopter's whereabouts. They had to know where it was going, if there were more people…If there was a safe haven in this bleak world.

"We have to."

Rick wouldn't stop. They had to chase it, even if went past Georgia state lines.

"Look!" Glenn suddenly jumped in his seat, startled. "It's crashing!"

Rick pulled on the breaks.

The car's occupants watched in wonder as the helicopter hid behind the distant forest, followed by a succinct and loud crash.

Rick frowned in apprehension. Was there anyone alive left in there?

"It can't be more than a kilometer or two away." Rick looked towards the others. "We should go there and find out who these people are, where they came from. They might be from a safe place. Maybe even a town protected from the undead."

Michonne's disgruntled frown now turned into a glower. "What about searching for Samara and Oscar?"

"Maybe these people know something about them." Glenn supplied, trying to diffuse the sudden tension

The woman gave him a dry look. "That's a big _if_."

"No bigger than wanderin' around hopin' to bump into them." Rick understood the woman's plight, but they could not deviate from their set path. They had to reach that crash site.

Michonne sighed in frustration, but consented. It was two against one, in the end.

"This won't take long." The former sheriff tried to reassure her. "We should be back at the prison by sunset. Once we get close enough, we'll go on foot. Alright?"

Glenn nodded determinedly, and so did Michonne after a tense pause. She was far from happy, but she also held a spark of curiosity about this newfound development.

The car sped away.

* * *

"I don't see or hear any movement." Rick whispered as he peered through the wild vegetation.

The helicopter was a hunk of metal chaos. The tail had been severed in half while the propeller had been contorted from the force of the impact with several pieces missing. Small, uncontrollable fires raged across the crash site.

—There was no sign of life.

"They might be hurt." Glenn supplemented as he tried to strain his vision.

"Or dead." Michonne rose from her crouch, determined to get a closer look. "I'll go see."

Ignoring Rick's rebuke, Michonne navigated across the tall, uncut grass and reached the helicopter. The inhabitants were not what she had expected—civilians. One woman, heavily pregnant, was cut in half while the pilot had been scalped by one of the propeller pieces. There was also another body of a man on the forest floor, but he did not seem alive. They looked like your everyday people, nothing out of the ordinary.

They must have been just some people that tried their luck out in the sky.

As Michonne crouched to check the man's pulse, she caught a glint in the distance. With a harsh gasp, she watched as that shine refracted from the window shield of not one, but two cars. And they were headed straight for her.

Michonne wasted no time and got out of there.

"Someone's coming!" She hissed once she reached the others.

"How many?" Rick looked around them in trepidation. He had not counted on someone else seeing the helicopter.

"Two cars."

The trio lowered even further in the vegetation, keeping their position a secret as the cars appeared in their field of vision. Two white trucks braked a short distance from the crashed helicopter.

"Any survivors?" Glenn asked anxiously as sweat poured down his skin, not all of it from the edgy situation. He shouldn't have worn the riot gear in this heat, it was killing him. Not to mention it was giving him a rash in some sensitive areas of his body.

"Two dead, not sure about the other."

Several people came out of the cars. Two white men, a black one and a Hispanic. And they were all armed to the teeth.

"Fan out!" The tall, white one commanded. He must be the one leading the group because the others listened without further ado.

Rustle.

Several walkers shuffled out of the forest and one of the men was about ready to shoot when the leader signaled him off.

"Waste of ammo. Just take care of them quietly."

The man was Georgia born from his accent. Rick had spent enough time around Daryl not to recognize it in others. And he was smart.

The sturdy black man shot a walker with an arrow with frightening accuracy while the Hispanic bashed two walkers with a baseball bat. He seemed to really enjoy destroying the two rotten corpses.

The leader stepped closer towards the crash and peeked inside the cockpit. He didn't seem to find anything of interest before refocusing on the body on the ground.

"Got a breather!" He shouted out towards the others. "Chris, help me out here!"

The man in question helped the leader carry the survivor away from the helicopter. Neither of the trio could see much of the man, except that he had blood on him.

"He's saving him." Glenn turned towards the others in hesitation. "Should we show ourselves?"

"Not yet."

Michonne was the one that responded. There was something she didn't like about this picture. Something deep in her gut was telling her to stay hidden and not reveal herself to these men. And Michonne knew that when her instincts tingled, it was a good idea to listen to them.

"Shumpert, take care of the others so they don't turn."

The sturdy man abided his leader's orders and took out a knife he kept at his belt. It was a short and to the point job as the man called Shumpert effectively kept the dead from reanimating.

Rick frowned in thought. How much did these people know?

Rustle.

The sheriff's eyes widened in dread as two walkers emerged from behind them, making a ruckus with their groans and stepping on twigs and other dried vegetation. Ever quick on her feet, Michonne cut them down immediately with a swift swing of her katana. The trio held their breaths as they noticed with dread that the strangers had heard the sound and were currently surveying their location.

One beat. Two.

Rick could feel the other's tension prickling his skin and giving him a nauseating sensation. He wasn't any better as he could practically feel his heart in his throat.

The strangers could hear no other sound as they strained their hearing for any other undead intruders.

"Let's roll out!" The man in charge shouted and his people followed.

The trio couldn't even explain in words the relief they felt. A heavy weight had lifted from their shoulders, taking away the churning feeling in their stomachs. In the end, it would be better to be left unseen. They did not know these people or their intentions. And on the other hand, they had enough problems without adding these armed men to the formula.

Crack.

Michonne pulled out her katana for the second time just as Rick brandished his machete for the kill.

—What they came face to face with left them speechless.

"Uh-uh-uh! Easy does it." A man appeared before them, slinking out of the forest like a silent wraith. His grin was impish as his clear blue eyes surveyed his prey with dark humor. "Mine's a whole lot bigger than—"

That grin disappeared, replaced with awed shock.

Rick's eyes widened in horror as Glenn gasped in astonishment. Even Michonne was left shaken to the core as she recognized this devil.

It felt like a timeless bubble embraced them, keeping them in a suspended state. Rick's brain just couldn't comprehend this man's presence, here out of all places. How was this possible?

—Why was Merle _here_?

"Hoooly shit…" Merle's lips split into a wide grin, but Rick could see the malevolence behind it. Mostly directed at him and Rick would be a liar if he said it didn't send a tremor down his spine. "This has to be my luckiest day."

"Merle?" Glenn watched the man in petrified awe. "You're _alive_?"

"Alive as ever no thanks to you." His gun rose higher as his smile took on a sharper edge. "Now, put down your weapons."

Michonne looked towards Rick, lost. What were they supposed to do? They could rush Merle, chance the odds and run through the forest. The others were still far away to give them a heads start. They could lose them in the forest, but at what cost? Merle could shoot one of them in the ambush and they would have no choice but to leave that person behind.

Rick was of the same mind. All these thoughts had rushed through his adrenaline infused brain already. He knew they were in a precarious situation. He had been the one that cuffed Merle to the roof and left him to die…and Michonne had been the one that had tried to kill Merle along with Samara. Right now, angering Merle further could spell all their deaths.

With immense reluctance, Rick lowered his machete and let it drop to the earthy ground.

"That's it, nice and easy."

The others followed Rick's actions, despite their unwillingness. They disarmed themselves, cautious of the loaded weapon pointed at them. It was not a good feeling for either of the trio. It felt like bitter defeat.

"And let me see your hands."

They listened to his command and only then did Rick and Glenn notice the man's lack of hand. Or better said his metal prosthetic. It gleamed lethally in the afternoon sun, their reflection ominously catching into it.

Merle observed the three of them with the patience of a predator about to devour its prey. His eyes practically bled hunger. Hunger for their lives.

"Now, how's about a big hug for your old pal Merle?" He opened his arms wide in mock gesture, but there wasn't anything remotely friendly about him. It felt more like a grizzly bear on its hind legs, swatting its large, deadly paws in challenge.

Rick licked his dry lips as his skin grew cold and damp.

"Merle, we can talk about—"

It was instantaneous.

Michonne's lips pursed into a scowl while Glenn backed away in fright.

Rick fell to the ground, blood cascading out of his nose from where Merle had hit him with the butt of his handgun.

"Rick!" Glenn crouched to his side as Rick's eyes went in and out of focus. He barely even seemed aware of his surroundings or what even happened to him.

Merle let out a deeply satisfied grunt. "Been waitin' for that for a _looong_ time."

With this one moment of inattention, Michonne tried to rush Merle only for him to stare her down with a mighty glower and the muzzle of his gun.

"Don't even think about it, hon." His eyes narrowed venomously as his teeth gritted with barely suppressed rage. "You remember me, don't you?"

Michonne's hands curled into fists.

Merle smirked knowing that she did. He could see it in her murderous eyes, the same deadly stare she gave him in Geneva during her short time held captive by him. But all that malicious joy fell once his group came within hearing distance. He had no more time left.

Merle's cold gaze returned to the woman.

"You don't know me, woman, unless you wanna die."

Michonne's confusion was wiped off her face the moment Merle's handgun slammed into her face, rendering her unconscious.

* * *

Dark coffee eyes looked around in a blur.

Michonne could barely see anything past the haze and the throbbing headache she was experiencing. She could hear voices and the rumble of an engine. Underneath her was sturdy leather and Michonne knew she was lying across the backseat of a car. There was a warm body near and her gaze naturally gravitated towards it.

She wished she hadn't.

Familiar blue eyes regarded her with chilling coldness. Merle was studying her like she was nothing more than a bug underneath a microscope, just waiting for the moment she became disposable.

She felt faint.

Michonne's eyes widened slightly as she tried to remain awake, but it was no use. The darkness was calling her back.

The last thing she saw before returning to sweet, ignorant oblivion was Merle's finger settled against his lips in a hush gesture.

 _Keep quiet._

Her eyes closed and Michonne knew no more.

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_ Shit's about to hit the fan, yo.


	41. His Name was Death

_This ain't good._

Rick barely gave the doctor any attention as he tended to his bruised face. His focus was on the armed guard by the door, watching him and his companions with a keen eye. Michonne was also being treated by a woman in her early twenties, most likely the doctor's assistant, and Glenn sat on one of the chairs, his foot tapping incessantly. The boy was beyond nervous as he too could sense the danger.

The moment Merle rushed out of that foliage, gun aimed and ready, Rick knew they were in deep trouble. It all came rushing in like an ocean wave.

… _They're armed to the teeth with enough guns to supply a small army thanks to that convoy raid. And trust me, they have an army…_

Samara's words had been like a punch to the stomach. Now they knew that Merle was well and truly alive, and with him came the very same people she had feared could possibly stumble across their group. Samara's nightmare came true and now it became Rick's personal hell.

If these people had been so readily to kill others for weapons and ammunition, what will they do to them once they found the prison? He knew the answer and it made him fear.

—That could _never_ happen.

Rick will never allow these people to set foot in his home where his friends and his _family_ resided. He will not give up the one safe place they found after so many months of wandering, not after the blood and sweat they poured into it trying to clean it up of the undead and dangerous inmates.

Where was Merle? Was he telling his leader all about them? Was he giving him information to use against them?

Goddammit, he couldn't even talk to his people to settle on a story, not with the crowd around them. He himself would have to interveene once the inevitable question followed.

The tapping stopped.

Rick was startled out of his overwrought thoughts as Glenn jumped out of his seat, no longer able to stand his drained nerves.

"Why are we being held here? We want to leave!"

Alice left Michonne's side and walked up to the high-strung man in an attempt to calm him down. "You're not well enough. You should stay the night."

"Where are we?" Rick lifted his eyes to the aging doctor. He seemed like a kind man, if not stern.

The man gave him a furtive glance before returning back to his work. "That ain't for me to say."

A click of the lock.

The prison group felt their breaths hitch as the man they had been dreading to see entered the room. Merle walked calmly, his eyes moving back and forth between the trio. He was assessing them, gouging out their present state of mind.

He hadn't changed much, Rick thought. He had lost some weight and that sparkle that always seemed to accompany his gaze in Atlanta was gone. Had he sworn off drugs or was he just not on them at the moment? He didn't know which version of Merle he preferred more—this sober one that viewed them as prey or the one with maniacal glee; the carefree daredevil?

But that tension that he brought forth dissipated from his body as he abruptly grinned. That grin sent a shudder of aversion down Rick's body. Even in Atlanta Rick had hated the way the man could smile like a wolf, hungry for even the tiniest spark of violence. His hands rose in a placating gesture, but there was no mistaking the edge in his narrowed blues.

"I ain't here to cause you harm. I'm on a peaceful mission."

"Like hell you are." Glenn sneered at the man's obvious false reassurance. He didn't forget his greeting nor the time they spent near Atlanta.

"I just got a little excited from seein' y'all again, that's all." There was no guilt present in him as his eyes finally settled on Rick. His grin fell to a faint upturn of his lips, but the malice only grew into a poisonous vapor. Rick could practically feel the man's anger prickling his skin. He hadn't forgotten, not by a long shot.

"Bet you was wonderin' if I was real. Probably hopin' I wasn't." He scoffed, his tone disdainful. "Well, here I am. I guess this old world gets a little small towards the end, huh? Ain't so many of us left to share the air."

Merle paced across the room with steady steps, his focus never wavering from his old _comrades_.

"You know…When they found me, I was near bled out. Starvin'. Thinkin' to myself a bullet might make a good last meal." He chuckled faintly despite the dark memories he was recounting. "Take myself a nice long nap and wait for Daryl on the other side."

"He went back for you, him and Rick, but you were already gone." Glenn intervened before anyone else could. That long buried guilt rose to the surface and he couldn't contain himself from blurting out.

"Yeah well, not all of me."

With a turn and a click, Merle took off his prosthetic, revealing his self-inflicted amputation.

"Oh, god…" Glenn turned away from the grotesque sight.

Not Rick, however. He wouldn't look away from the consequences of his choices. On one hand (no pun intended) he felt sorry for the man, but on the other Rick was reminded of why he had done what he had done and was left clearheaded. Merle had brought this on himself with his erratic and violent behavior. At that point in time, he had left Rick with no choice but to restrain him. What came after had been… _unfortunate_.

"Nice, huh?" He admired his stump with an air of warmth and loathing. "Your handiwork."

"We tried to save you. Daryl saw that."

Merle laughed lowly, scathingly. "He's always been the sweet one, my baby brother."

"He wanted to keep lookin', then things happened, people died. A lot of them." So many left behind to rot, so many lost to this savage new world…and many more to come. "We had to leave Atlanta, we wound up on a farm. Daryl stepped up, became a valued member of the group. I reli _ed_ on him more than I do anyone else. He's helped us so much. Without him we wouldn't have gotten so far…I don't think I could've handle everythin' that happened to us. "

That was the sincere truth. Rick had relied on Daryl so many times during the dark period before finding the prison. He had a partner he could confide in. Someone to share what little of the heavy burden he could share. And Daryl had taken it all in like a sponge, never once complaining. The best of the group was solely on his mind.

—He really had come a long way from the lone wolf obediently trailing after his brother's footsteps.

Merle's eyes narrowed in hesitation. "Past tense? …Where is he?"

"We don't know." Rick's eyes were adamant. "We've been separated from the group for a while now. We haven't seen Daryl or the others since the farm months ago."

Merle stared blankly.

A slow, steady smirk grew on his lips. One that gave Rick pause.

"Really? Is that right?"

Something wasn't right. Beside the fact that Merle didn't believe him, it seemed that he actually _knew_ better.

"It's true." Glenn opened his mouth, understanding where Rick was going with the story—no mention of the prison. "We split up during winter last year. We were holing up at a farm house when walkers chased us away. We tried finding the others, but…there was no trace."

There was anger present in the Georgia man's features. He was beyond frustrated by the duo's denial.

"Now, why are you doin' this? Why deny me my right to see my brother?"

"Because they don't trust you…" Michonne's coffee eyes stared daggers. "And neither do I."

Merle laughed despite the tense situation. "Oh, she speaks! Well, who trusts anyone these days? You have to be an idiot to trust a guy that just threatened you with a gun, right? But thing is, I _need_ to know where my brother is. He's _my_ family! Not yours!" He looked to Rick with fury barely held back. "You owe me this!"

The door opened once again and in walked the tall man that had been present at the helicopter crash. His presence seemed to have a strange effect on Merle as he caged the beast inside him, quelling its anger. Behind him another man followed, bald and muscular, but he settled by the door alongside Martinez.

The man had an attentive gaze, isolated from any invasive eyes. Rick was instantly put on guard. This man was not like the rest.

He whispered something into Merle's ear to which he nodded dutifully. His focus then settled on the two medical aids.

"Doctor, I think it's time you left us. I'm sure you got other patients to worry about."

Despite the apprehensive glance the two shared, they followed orders.

The tension in the room could be cut through with a knife. Rick's jaw hurt from the way he clenched it so severely, just waiting for someone to make the first move. He could see from the corner of his eye Michonne's veins bulging in her arms from the force of her tightening fists. One small whisp and it would break her self-control.

"My name's the Governor. How you feelin'?"

This man…He barely seemed phased by the general stress felt in the room. And his name…The Governor?

"We want our weapons!" Michonne spat.

"Sure. On your way out of the front gates."

"Show us the way." Rick sat up from the gurney, not at all bothered by his aching nose. "You've kept us locked up in this room enough."

"You see any bars on the windows? You're bein' cared for."

"Under guard."

"To protect our people, we don't know you. Well, Merle does, but from his stories I'm hesitant to trust you." His eyes thinned hawkishly. "He did lose a hand because of you."

"Are we prisoners then?"

The man scoffed before a smile bloomed on his lips, but Rick could sense the hollowness behind it. "Of course not, you're guests. You're Merle's brother's people. But if you wanna leave you're free to do so, but we don't open the gates past dusk. Draws too much attention."

"We can handle ourselves." Glenn took his stance. "Walkers are just nuisances. We can get by them, even in the dark."

Something shifted. Not tangible, but inside the man called the Governor. The others hadn't caught the glimpse of something _dark_ flash before the man's eyes, but Rick did and he broke out into a cold sweat. He'd never seen anything like it before, as if Death with all its promise of pain and horror had been present in that one, brief instant.

—What in Glenn's words caused that shift?

"Maybe." Nothing of his previous uncharacteristic manner was still present. Rick swore if he had been a lesser smart man, he would have thought it a trick of the light. "But I can't in good consciousness let you go right now. Besides, you and Merle got things to talk about. I'm also rather curious to meet Daryl. From what Merle told me, he's an exceptional man."

"We don't know where Daryl is." Glenn once again reiterated their false story. "We told Merle this already. We got separated. We haven't see anyone from the Atlanta group in a long time. We've just been traveling from one place to another."

"So, it's been just the three of you?" His gaze traveled over the trio, studying every inch of their bodies with a shrewdness Rick had only seen in Samara. "For people survivin' on the road you don't look haggard or hungry. Actually, you look in pretty good shape." The Governor's sharp eyes stopped on Glenn's uniform. "Is that police gear?"

"It's—it's just something I found."

Rick almost bit his lip in frustration. Ever since they found the riot in gear in the prison, Glenn had insisted on wearing it whenever the group ventured beyond the prison's protective walls. At that time, Rick had seen it as a reasonable if not life-saving choice, but now…Glenn's clothes could doom them all.

The Governor remained silent, but Rick could see it all in his posture, in his features. There was something dark brewing behind those _dead_ eyes.

"Let us leave. Now." Michonne was losing the little patience she had left. "We've done nothing to you."

"Well…" The man regarded her with barely any cordiality. "I can't really do that anymore, can I? You have information I'm very curious about. And one that I think will benefit me greatly."

This was it. The man was showing his true colors and they were the shades of Hell's grisliness. Leaving, being set free…it had never once crossed the man's mind.

—They were trapped.

"What do you want from us?"

"Everythin'." The smile he gave them had Rick's chest swell in anger. It was both mocking and domineering, as if he had already prevailed over their futile attempts. "Your camp, your food, your guns, bullets, vehicles, tools, those suits. I mean…Do you really expect me to believe you just found it on your wanderin's?"

"There is no camp!" Rick barked, spite clear in his rigid posture. "There are no other people. Just us. That suit—we found it on a dead body. That's it."

"You're a good liar, but I'm not buyin' it. You don't even have a bottle of water with you. Merle said you have a family. So then, where are they? After travelin' across states and finally findin' them, I don't think you'd stop _if_ you'd lost them again." His eyes narrowed vehemently. "There's more to this than meets the eyes and I wanna know it."

He knew everything. That son of a bitch had told him everything, including about his pursuit for Lori and his son. He could almost strangle Merle.

But one thing was certain—

Rick looked the man dead in the eye.

"We're not gonna tell you a thing because there's nothin' to tell."

The Governor sighed in tediousness.

"Hold them. I don't think these people realize how serious this situation is."

Glenn's breath hitched.

Pandemonium erupted.

Merle rushed out of his seat like a pouncing tiger and found his target in Rick. But the man had been prepared for this from the moment that man changed facets like a chameleon. He dodged Merle's attack and body slammed the older man into the gurney, sending him crashing over it. Rick could hear the others struggle, but he was unable to help them as his focus was solely on the older Dixon.

They had a score to settle.

Merle recuperated in a blink of an eye, angrier than ever. Rick could almost see the steam coming out of his ears and knew he had to be ready. Merle was no chump, not by a long shot.

Just as Rick's muscles locked for Merle's second charge, he felt pain explode behind his eyes.

Clang!

Rick fell to the floor, holding the back of his head as the Governor stood over him with a metal tray in hand.

"Merle, stop foolin' around and pin him to the desk."

The world spun as Rick could barely see anything beside the white haze before his eyes. Even his hearing was impaired by a thin, sharp ringing that resembled a dead phone line. His brain was like a ping-pong ball inside his skull causing him a maddening ache.

Callous hands took control.

Rick is mercilessly thrown onto a wooden table, scattering the papers and supplies that had been arranged neatly on it. The older Dixon twisted Rick's arms behind his back until his shoulders strained with the pressure. A hiss escaped his clenched teeth as he felt the coolness of metal crash harshly over the back of his neck, pinning his head to the cool wooden surface.

"You're gonna pay for that hit." Merle whispered in his ear, his voice thin as a snake's. "We have _all_ the time in the world now."

Rick glared into the table, hating this man atop him from the bottom of his soul. This wasn't supposed to happen and yet, here he was, at the mercy of the one man he never wanted to see ever again.

The Kentucky sheriff actually wished Samara had finished the job on that stretch of road.

A shadow materialized.

Strong fingers gripped his hair and manipulated him callously until he came face to face with the Governor's grim features.

"Now, you're gonna tell me what I wanna know. I've got three of you. I can do all sorts of nasty things to you in front of each other. One of you _will_ talk." He looked toward Merle. "Give me his hand."

With brute strength that Rick tried to resist with all his might in no avail, Merle wretched his arm and extended it over the table. His fingers were like manacles over Rick's wrist and while his full weight pinned him to the table, his other hand was rendered useless.

The Governor took control of Rick's hand and unsheathed a large, glinting hunting knife.

"I always get what I want and there's nothin' you can do to prevent that."

There was no time to shout, no time to even blink as that cold piece of steel pierced his flesh and sliced clean through the center of his hand, ending on the bottom of the table.

—Rick stared in shock at the knife lodged into his hand.

He didn't hear Michonne's shouts of anger or Glenn's struggle to break free. All Rick could hear was the sound of blood rushing through his veins.

He just got stabbed.

Rick's eyes widened as blood pooled on the table, staining it ruby red.

The present sucked him back in. All sounds crashed over his ears while his vision expanded from just one point of focus.

"Rick!" Michonne was yelling as she struggled fiercely against the bald giant who held her in a vice grip.

"Let us go!" Glenn hissed as the other guard held him at gunpoint against the wall.

The Governor's dead eyes were staring at him fixedly, not an ounce of pity present.

"You son of a bitch…" Rick said softly, barely audible above the ruckus caused by the others. His pupils were as small as pinpricks and he could feel his blood turn cold as ice. At this moment, there was only one thought on Rick's mind—"I'll kill you…"

The Governor smirked.

One wrong step. A flash of teeth and blood. And Michonne was out of her meaty restraints.

Rick saw the Governor's eyes widden as the woman propelled herself using the table and crashed into him, sending both to the floor in a flurry of limbs and colors.

"Get her off me!"

Michonne did not hold back in her fury. She did not scratch or punch or use anything beside her teeth. Those pearly whites chomped down on his ear and didn't let go even as the Governor pulled her hair harshly and hit her in the side. Harder and harder did she apply pressure until the soft skin gave away and life liquid seeped out. The Governor yelled in horror as the woman's teeth met with a slimy clink.

Now…there was a strange sort of hollowness where his ear shell was supposed to be.

Michonne raised her head and spat out the piece of the Governor. The ear shell landed on the tile with a wet plop, blood spattering around it.

The bald man took hold of Michonne and lifted her without any resistance. Michonne just stared damnably defiant at the man bleeding on the floor of the clinic. While her words were mute, her gaze said it all—she won this round.

"I'm gonna break your neck, bitch!"

"No! Don't! She won't get a bruise that doesn't come from me!" The Governor shouted as he held his bleeding ear. His eyes were lit with a fire unseen before. Even Merle hesitated at the sight of that black, bottomless fury that seemed to burn all it laid its gaze on.

"You goddamn—" The Governor stifled the horrid words that were a second away from spewing out. He hated cursing with a vengeance, but there were moments even he lost herself to his anger. "You'll suffer for this. You'll wish you were dead once I'm done with you."

And that was a promise. The woman really did not know what boiling pot she landed herself in.

"Martinez, take the boy to the cells. Her…" His eyes shone maliciously, with the promise of excruciating pain to come. "Bruce, you take her to the Room. As for you." His attention returned to Rick, but it was unwelcome as the Kentucky man could almost feel the man's rage sweltering his skin. "You get to stay here. Merle, get Stevens and Alice back in here. Have 'em clean up the mess and stitch me up."

Rick had to watch helplessly as Glenn and Michonne were dragged out of the room, with no knowledge of when they will see each other again, if ever. The sheriff felt the walls caving in as a lightness touched his head. The bloodloss was finally starting to affect him as the adrenaline left his body, leaving him a shaking mess.

He could almost curse the woman for her impulsiveness. Why the hell had Michonne done that? They were already in a bad situation, she didn't need to make it even worse.

But what concerned Rick the most wasn't his own uncertain status, but what this _Room_ was. From the way the Governor had spat out that word, it almost felt like death followed it. Nothing good—that was what the Room promised and Rick _feared_ for Michonne's life.

Meaty finger wrapped around the handle of the knife and Rick's stomach constricted.

Rick's yell was short and piercing as Merle pulled the knife out, none too gently. The former sheriff fell to his knees, cradling his bleeding hand. It hurt so badly now he could feel it deep in his bones.

As the former sheriff's face lifted, he was met with Merle's impenetrable cold gaze. The hit to his temple had been brisk and almost welcome, and Rick's last thought before oblivion took him were that he wished he never followed his curiosity to that helicopter.

There had been nothing but doom awaiting them.

* * *

Merle looked at the unconscious man with a light scowl. He almost wished the butt of his handgun had caved in the Kentucky man's skull. It was the least he deserved.

As Stevens and Alice returned, they almost fell back in shock at the scene before them—the Governor bleeding and angry beyond words, Merle standing over an unconscious and bleeding Rick and a chunk of ear laying forlornly on the impeccable tile.

"What the hell?!"

"Not a word, Stevens." The Governor hissed as he could anticipate the doctor's argumentative spirit. He would have none of it. "Just stop the bleedin'."

Stevens bit his lip firmly, but obeyed. He signaled Alice to take care of Rick while he dealt with the man himself.

The Governor said nothing more as he settled on the gurney and let the good doctor do his magic, but Stevens could feel it. There was a storm brewing underneath that carefully controlled expression—one that promised the coming of a nightmare. Stevens felt a shiver slide down his spine and despite his skepticism in any higher power, he still sent a prayer for these poor wretches that got caught in the man's web. He just hoped that their death would be swift, but from the look on the Governor's face it was a pointless desire. There will be blood and Stevens had no will left in him to clean up yet another mangled corpse once the man was done _playing_ with it.

The tension in the room was suffocating. Stevens was on high alert, careful of doing anything to upset the already irate man. He did not want to wake up with a bullet in his skull.

The sudden movement made everyone catch their breath. The Governor pulled something colorful out of the many pockets of his cargo pants. At first Merle watched the object with a curious eye, but his mind caught onto the fact that he had seen that particular piece of jewelry before. Even Stevens watched it with hesitant eyes.

The beaded turquoise necklace was handled with such care, almost reverently as blood got smudged over the yellowed fangs.

There was a dead look in the Governor's eyes as he toyed with the many fangs, one that Merle did not like.

The largest of the fangs was caught in a crushing grip while the Governor's thumb settled over the pointed end.

"Walkers…"

Pressure was applied and none too soon did the aged fang give way, breaking in half with a brisk snap.

 _Oh…_

Merle's finger twitched in realization. The same word that made him realize her connection to the Atlanta group now wormed its way to his boss's awareness. He seemed to have realized its uniqueness as well.

The smirk that grew on his lips had him appear like the cat that ate the canary.

In other words—Samara was in _deep_ shit.

* * *

Samara paced across the Wall anxiously. Something wasn't right. The cars had arrived three hours ago and there hadn't been any news, not even a sign of the party that had left. Had they found survivors? What was to become of them? Will they be used as fodder in the arena?

She had tried leaving the Wall, but was promptly held back by her _colleagues_. She had a duty, they reminded her. Samara had oh so gracefully told them that their lower orifices were a good place in which they could store their duty.

Needless to say, she was still stuck on the Wall.

Samara was a quarter into biting off one of her nails when she caught sight of Shumpert. The tall man was making his way towards the wall with hurried steps, his face as stone cold as ever. Samara couldn't tell if that was a good sign or not.

"The Governor wants to talk with you." He didn't even take a breath as he stopped right next to the wall, his dark eyes peering at her with a strange tautness.

"About?"

"Come on."

He turned and left, offering no further answer. As always, Shumpert was a man of little words.

Samara had no choice but to follow, apprehensive of what she may come across. Perhaps they had found a survivor and what information he had shared had been of great significance. Maybe there was a safe haven somewhere.

Shumpert led her through the back alleys until Samara recognized the area near the clinic. She had walked its grounds with Alice enough times to familiarize herself with them.

The stench of antiseptic hung in the air like a bad memory. The indoors would have looked the same as always if it hadn't been for the blood staining the pale colored tiles and the smooth wooden surface of Alice's desk. There was a thin trail of blood leading to the adjunct room where Samara knew was the bedding area.

—The former marshal knew the signs of struggle when she saw them.

On the other side of the room sat the Governor, holding the side of his head with a towel. Samara could smell the coppery scent of fresh blood from her position by the entrance. Guess she now understood why the doctor had used so much antiseptic for it to create a nauseating atmosphere.

There was something in his free hand that was being clenched tightly and Samara almost swore she peeked a flash of turquoise.

Samara's stomach clenched when the door behind her closed signaling Shumpert's departure. She was now left alone with only the Governor and that eerie flicker in his eyes.

Something wasn't right. Her gut feeling was telling her that she was in danger and that she should bail as fast as humanly possible. But there was no possibility of her escaping nor did she have the means to.

So she waited for what was to come.

The Governor finally moved and Samara's lips parted in surprise. As the towel was removed from his head, she could clearly see the damage done.

"What…" Samara stepped closer, morbid curiosity guiding her towards the splatter of dried blood. "The _fuck_ happened to your ear?"

It was a mess of flesh and stitches. Most of the ear shell was gone, leaving only a gnarled hunk of flesh mutilated by either a chainsaw knife or an animal's teeth.

"Tell me, Samara." His voice was hauntingly mellow. "Have you ever read the Great Gatsby?"

"Of course, but what does that have—"

"So then you know that Gatsby, for all his flash and grandiosity, could not be counted upon?" His eyes thinned into ominous slits. "He spun stories as easily as we breathe. From his love life, to his past and to his wealth. Everythin' that came out the man's mouth was a _lie_. Even the beautiful books he prided himself with in his grand library were, in fact, untouched. A metaphor for his luxurious and dazzlin', but shallow and empty life."

Samara stood rigidly as her heart began beating rapidly. At first it had been a flutter, but now it was a full blown war horn. Cold sweat pooled at her hairline and her hands felt clammy.

 _Get out. Get out. Get out._

But she didn't listen. She stood in place, listening to the man's hypnotic words like a sheep about to be sent to the slaughter.

"In the end, all of that dazzle and lies turned against him." The towel dropped to the floor with a sickening plop. "Karma can be a mean mistress."

His fist opened.

A familiar turquoise beaded necklace hung lifelessly from his fingers, one of the fangs broken in half.

Samara's breath hitched. _Her necklace…_

"Go through that door." He indicated the door at the end of the room, the one that led towards the bedding area. "See with your own eyes."

With steady steps, the Native walked passed the Governor, her eyes never leaving him. Those dark blue eyes followed her like a specter. One full of dark and dangerous intent.

Samara's breath scratched against her ear. Her boots stepped heavily on the white tile creating a lingering echo. Her eyes followed desolately the trail of blood as numb fingers clenched around the door handle. With a small click, the door opened. The creak of the hinges had Samara's fine hairs stand at attention. She had no clue what awaited her on the other side, but she knew it wouldn't be anything good. Samara felt like she was stepping towards her executioner.

Stevens and Alice were seen in the distance, hunched over someone. The trail of blood led to them and Samara could see a man on the bed, his hand drenched in crimson. His face was hidden from her as Alice was blocking the view, but the butterfly feeling in her stomach now turned into a boiling pit of despair.

Was she supposed to know this person?

Alice moved out of the way to grab something off the tray.

 _Oh…Gods…_

That face…even with the bruise she could recognize it anywhere.

It was _Rick_.

"I _despise_ liars."

Samara swallowed thickly as her pupils dilated in terror.

The Governor's looming form was just behind her, peering down at her with cruel eyes.

"Rick Grimes…" The bite in his words chilled her to the bone. "Ring a bell?"

Samara was stone faced. Like a switch had been flicked inside her brain, her self-preservation took over, drowning all emotion and leaving her to deal with the situation with a cool and calculating head. She was on very thin ice, moments away from it cracking and sinking her to the bottom. What awaited her beneath was a petrifying fate, but one she braved with her chin held high.

"Your _friends_ are here. Those very same people that you said you parted ways with a month ago. They said almost the exact same story. Farm house." His eyes narrowed as he heavily accentuated the next word. " _Walkers_ runin' you off. Only it was _months_ ago. Last winter, to be precise." His head cocked to the side, mockingly. "Do you see where the problem lies?"

Samara's lips pursed. She wouldn't say anything, knowing it would just entice him.

"At first I thought it was a coincidence. I think I _wanted_ it to be a coincidence, but…" His gaze moved to the unconscious man on the bed. "The odds were against you. I always held the notion that you came from somewhere safe, somewhere with more people, but I seem to have forgotten that suspicion somewhere down the line." His eyes snapped back to her with a whips intensity. "Now, what am I supposed to do with a liar like you?"

It was a knee jerk reaction.

Samara took out the scalpel hidden in her sling and aimed for the man's throat. The Governor moved out of the way just in time, but Samara's sudden attack still managed to hit him. The man hissed in pain as the sharp scalpel pierced his skin and found home deep in his shoulder.

Stevens and Alice stopped their work, shocked of what was happening before their eyes.

Samara jumped backwards, as far away from the Governor as she could. Her eyes searched wildly for more weapons to use and found them all shiny and pointy on the doctor's medical tray. With a speed she hadn't used in quite some time, Samara ran towards her salvation.

She wasn't about to die here.

* * *

With a groan, the Governor ripped out the scalpel and watched in fascination as bright blood trickled from it on the floor.

Laughter bubbled up in his throat.

"I forgot from your fight with Micah that you're fast." With eyes black as night, the man watched as the Native pushed Alice out of the way and grabbed as many sharp objects as possible.

A devilish smirk spread over his lips, but it fell short of any sort of amusement.

He let the blade fall to the floor with a shrill clutter.

"And resourceful."

Calmly he walked towards the calamity that was Stevens trying to calm the agitated woman down.

"Samara, stop!" He caught her wrist in wild desperation. "There's no need for this! We can ta—"

A punch to his face was his answer and the Governor almost let out the chuckle that threatened to break loose. She really did remind him of Merle of when he first got here. The good doctor tripped and fell onto the former sheriff's unconscious body, blood leaking out of his nose.

The impact must have been enough to jar the man out of his deep slumber as his eyes opened with a start. Wildly, his eyes fleeted about and the first thing he saw was the young blond nurse on the floor, her features set in horror. He followed her gaze and came upon the doctor laying across his legs on the bed, nursing a bloody nose and beyond him—

Even through the blur and the light dizziness, Rick would never be able to mistake those sharp features and arctic olive eyes spreading ferocity with just one glare.

"…Samara?"

The woman in question didn't even glanced his way, her eyes trained on the man still approaching her unperturbed.

His mind clicked. There was no time for questions. No time for theories. How Samara was present here was of no importance at this very moment. He only had to act.

Through the pain and vertigo, Rick slipped his feet from underneath the doctor and threw himself off the bed. Alice screamed once he landed on his knees right next to her, but it didn't stop him. He had to get up and fight. Using the bed as leverage, he tried to rise to his feet only to have strong hands push him back down.

"Get off me!" Rick yelled in anger as Stevens tried to keep him in place. "I'll kill you!"

Stevens fell atop him and used his own weight to pin him down. "Alice, get a sedative! Go!"

Alice was frozen stiff with her knees hugging her chest. If her eyes went anymore wide, the doctor feared they would pop out.

"Alice!"

The girl jumped, but this time she acted on the man's orders. She scrambled to her feet and ran passed the Governor to the medicine cabinet.

Samara was still holding her ground with a sharp scalpel in hand, anxiously waiting for the Governor's arrival.

The ruckus Alice caused as she searched for tranquilizers didn't seem to faze the two locked in a standoff. Their attention was solely on each other. Two predators circling each other.

Rick pushed against the doctor, trying to get him off, but to no avail. He was still weak from where Merle knocked him unconscious and the pain in his hand was piercing his brain, making him unable to concentrate properly.

"Got it!"

Alice ran back with a syringe loaded with clear liquid.

The Kentucky man felt as if iron settled over him as Stevens didn't leave him with any room to struggle. Any other day, he would have easily gotten rid of this man, but with his current impediments he felt helpless.

He saw the young woman fall beside them and catch hold of his arm. Rick knew what was about to happen and tried with all his might to avert his fate.

"Hurry!" Stevens shouted as he held Rick's wriggling arm down so Alice could pierce it with the syringe.

"Goddamn you, Stevens!" Samara shouted as she swung her scalpel at the Governor. The man jumped out of harm's way, a scowl on his face as she missed him by mere inches. "Get off him!"

Stevens bit his lip in frustration, but kept his resolve firm. They had to get this situation under control.

The man underneath him groaned as the syringe emptied itself into his vein. Rick struggled frantically despite the world growing hazy around him once again. His sluggish limbs were barely able to keep themselves upright as his mind left the present.

With a low groan, Rick's eyes closed and he knew no more. Funny, how his last conscious thoughts centered on the marshal and how _relieved_ he was that she was still alive.

"Jesus, he's a fighter." Alice exhaled loudly as she fell to her side exhausted. "How's your nose?"

Stevens waved her off, rearranging his dented glasses over his bloodied nose. "It's nothin' that won't heal. I think my ego is more bruised than anythin'."

"Shit!" Samara cursed once she heard the sheriff cease in his struggle. He lost his battle and now it was time to settle hers.

The Governor wasn't trying to attack her. He was trying to back her into a corner like a wild animal, cage her in so she had no means of escaping. Worse was the fact that he did not seem threatened by her. He was patiently observing her, pacing himself to her swipes.

The scalpel sung as it slashed across air, always missing the dancing man. Frustration began to rage inside her chest as the Governor gave her the impression that he was merely toying with her. Giving her false hope while all the way letting her fall into his trap.

Samara knew that if she rushed him, he could easily overpower her in her one armed state. She had to keep her distance, for her own sake.

But this impasse couldn't last for long. It was approaching its final moments. Samara could see it in the Governor's withering patience.

—He had played her little game long enough.

He stopped.

Samara almost balked when the gun came out of the back of his pants. The cold muzzle pointed straight at her and she couldn't do a damn thing about it.

"I'm the one in the advantage here. Your little needle ain't got a chance against this." His eyes narrowed savagely. He had no more time to waste with her. "Drop it."

The Native let her hands fall to her side and with it the scalpel slipped from her fingers mournfully. It had been a hopeless gamble. In the end, she would have never won this duel. From the moment she stepped foot in the clinic, her outcome had been sealed by the man holding all the cards.

Silence reigned for a split second.

Samara winced once she saw the Governor spin the weapon in his hand, the gun's end directed menacingly at her.

 _This is going to hur_ —

The impact had been short and painful. Samara fell to the floor, holding her mouth. Between her fingers, blood leaked out and she could feel a tooth wiggle slightly unhinged.

"Governor—"

"Not one word!" The Governor barked at Stevens, his glower fearsome. He had no mind for delays anymore.

The doctor and nurse watched helplessly as a heavy boot crashed atop of Samara's chest, pinning her cruelly to the floor. The Native coughed, blood splattering all over her face.

"Too bad it has to end this way." He applied more force and watched as Samara grimaced in pain, ruby red ghastly staining her pearly white teeth. "You had potential. You could have even become my left hand. I guess it just wasn't meant to be."

Her eyes opened wide and only now did the Governor notice the golden flakes encased in the olive green of her irises. But what captivated him the most was the look of pure murder she was attempting to burn into his brain.

—She was more _striking_ in this instance than she had ever been before.

"Like I would ever accept to follow a madman like you!" She spat, leaving a slimy wad of blood to lazily rest atop his boot. "I'm reasonably smarter than that."

The Governor smirked.

 _Stubborn woman…_

The smirk vanished as a hollowness spread over his features. The Governor's boot rose omniously. Samara didn't even have time to defend herself as the sole of his boot crashed over her head, rendering her unconscious.

The Governor sighed. It was over. This whole ordeal was packed and finished.

Dead eyes found the man responsible for the welfare of his people.

"It seems I need your services once again, Stevens." His finger came back bloody from his shoulder.

The older man closed his eyes in despondency. He rose to his feet with a huff and gathered the supplies needed to treat his leader. Alice watched him with dejected eyes, but there was nothing Stevens could do. His hands were tied.

"Could you at least call someone in to help with them?" He motioned towards the two unconscious people on the floor. The very least they could be transferred to a bed where he could treat their injuries properly.

"Don't worry, doctor. They ain't going anywhere."

Stevens pursed his lips and said nothing. He motioned to Alice to pick herself up and treat the patients, wherever they may lie.

His old eyes stirred with repressed emotion at the sight of the comatose and bleeding woman. She just couldn't take a break. It was one injury after another and what will come next will be beyond even his help.

 _God_ _help you, Samara, because it's out of my hands now._

* * *

Pain was the first thing that hit her.

Samara winced as she regained consciousness, swimming through the muddy waters of obscurity towards the dying light. But as more awake she became, Samara began to notice that her whole body hurt, not just one area— her jaw throbbed; her head ached with a terrible migraine; her shoulder was being pulled back into an awkward position that consistently sent waves of pain throughout her system.

 _My hands are tied._

Not just her hands, but all her limbs. Cool steel hugged her wrists with bruising force while sturdy roped was winded tightly across her legs, thighs, waist and upper arms. Samara felt like a tied up hog, ready to be slaughtered.

She didn't need to look around to know where she was. The smell alone was enough indicator.

The thought that she was back in her old cell made her almost tear up in frustration.

 _I failed…_

"Rise and shine, Pocahontas."

Her eyes snapped open, red veins spread across her sclera, likened to a spider's web.

The sight of Merle had her scowl. He was the last person she wanted to see.

"Shit…"

A flick of light.

"Mhmm. That you are." Merle closed his zippo with a click. Smoke billowed out of his mouth and nose, but his gaze was unwavering in its focus on her. "Deep in it, actually."

 _Yes._ She really stepped into a huge pile of mess this time.

—But so did Rick.

"Who else is here beside Rick?" _Goddammit, Rick is here_! She couldn't believe this. The situation was almost ridiculous enough that she could laugh. There were so many questions that had no answer and she _badly_ needed to take control. At this point, even some minor information to understand this insane situation would be a giant relief.

"Glenn and that _Foxy Brown_ you were with in Geneva."

Samara sucked in a breath.

"Are they still alive?"

 _Gods, please let them be_.

Merle nodded as he took a languid drag out of his cigarette. "For now."

Samara gasped in relief. She felt such a heavy weight lift from her shoulders. Her friends were still alive.

But such happiness had to be short lived as her current situation crashed over her, bringing her to reality. Her eyes hardened as she looked towards the smoking man.

"How did they get here?"

"They were at the chopper crash. Curiosity brought them there just like it did us. I couldn't just let them go." He chuckled devilishly, his form barely seen in the dimness of the room. If it wasn't for the cigarette's fire, she would be blind to his position. "Not without havin' a good ol' stroll down memory lane with 'em."

 _That bastard._

Samara's heart hurt. Her friends had no idea in what trouble they had gotten themselves into. Why? Why did they have to follow the helicopter? What the hell had been Rick thinking?! They should have ignored it! They should have just let it pass their notice—

Samara stopped.

 _Deep breaths. Don't give into despair just yet._

She would have done the same. If she had been in their shoes, her curiosity would have led her to that helicopter, even if she had been alone.

Now was not the time to be angry. She couldn't afford that luxury. Right now, she had bigger problems to face.

"What's going to happen to them?"

Now that her connection to the others was revealed, there was no escaping the Governor's wrath. That man will want to know, without a doubt, where they came from. And he would stop at nothing short of getting that information.

"You should be more concerned about your own hide. The big Hoss is _pissed_. Mainly because of you and that black bitch. She bit his ear off if you hadn't noticed."

"Michonne did that?" Before she could control herself, Samara guffawed in hysterical amusement. Oh, she would have risked another dislocated shoulder to witness that.

"Laugh while you still can, hun, cause you ain't gonna be soon enough." His smirk widened maliciously. "You'll just be wailin' in agony, waitin' for the pain to end. Death will be a respite once he's done with you. But first, he'll start with your friend."

A snarl split her lips. The thought of that man doing gods know what to Michonne had her burning with hatred. For the Governor, for this man for finding it amusing, for this fucked up situation.

"That won't solve anythin'." Merle pointed casually as Samara struggled in her bonds.

"Get me out!"

He scoffed. "Why would I do that?"

"You know why!"

"Nah. Don't need you no more." He tapped the useless ash with a languid flick of his wrist. "I got others that can tell me now."

Samara chocked on the accumulated saliva. She felt fear flow through her system like sticky tar. If even one of them talked about Daryl, Merle would find out that she had been lying all this time. That she had been just stringing him along so he could free her out of Woodbury with no intention of ever reuniting him with his brother.

Once Merle knew of his brother's death, there will be hell to pay and not even the Governor would be able to stop him.

"They won't say shit to you!" Samara barked with desperate fury. "They dislike you more than a sewer rat!"

"That's where you're wrong, sweetcheeks. The chink will talk. He was always the weakest link. I just have to yell 'boo' at him and he'd drop like a feather."

"Glenn is stronger than you think." He wasn't the same skittish young man she had first met at the Wiltshire Estates. "He's not about to start talking because you threaten him."

"You better hope so because if not, I can get _very_ creative."

Samara grimaced as his metal prosthetic glinted threateningly in the dim light.

Rustle.

Merle threw his lifeless cigarette away and moved close. Close enough that she could smell his natural musky odor. Callous fingers caught her sore jaw in a vice grip and squeezed mercilessly.

"You're nothin' to me now, squaw. Just another dead body." He hissed in her face, acid dripping from his tongue. "You're gonna rot here in this cell and after the Governor gets bored of playin' with you, you'll join the biters in the arena. That's all there is to it."

Samara stared him dead in the eye, hatred pouring out.

"If you don't help me, you're brother will _never_ forgive you."

"I doubt that."

"I've been with him for some time now, in _every_ possible way." This was her last weapon. Her ace in her sleeve. "You want your brother to welcome you back with open arms, you'll need me _alive_ and in one piece."

Merle snorted doubtfully. "Bullshit."

"It's true." He needed to believe her otherwise she was truly a goner. "How do you think I know about his scars and tattoos? I even know details about your life. You once had fish that Daryl forgot to take care of and you kicked his ass for it. Your father was a nobody and your mother died when you were young. Gods, he's never even had a real relationship with a woman before. How could I possibly know that without knowing your brother more intimately?"

Hesitation flickered in those deep blue eyes.

 _Yes, yes! Believe me!_

The man backed away from her and hid himself in the shadows.

"You're just tryin' to save your ass. I don't know how you learned those things and I don't care. You ain't my problem no more."

He turned to leave.

"It's true!" Samara yelled as even the chair shook with the force of her words.

"Piss off, bitch!" He snapped, suddenly furious. "You better start prayin' to your gods for a quick death, cause that's the only good thing that can save you!"

The door opened and light trickled inside.

"Wait! Wait, goddamn you!"

Samara watched in horror as the man disappeared from the room, leaving her with a growing despair in the pit of her chest.

"Merle!"

The door closed with a loud crash that reverberated across the empty hall.

Samara's breath hitched. She almost screamed in anger as her eyes readjusted to the familiar dark.

She was _alone_ again.

* * *

Merle whistled as he casually walked towards one of the cells on the other side of the hall. He could still hear Samara's last shout bounce across the walls, but it didn't bother him in the least. She could yell all she wanted, vent her anger because he was deaf to her hatred. No, in fact, he _relished_ in it.

—That arrogant bitch had it coming.

With a turn of a key, he opened the rusty cell door and flicked on the switch.

Glenn squinted in the sudden burst of light. He had been sitting in the dark for what felt like hours now, only his own misery as company.

He wasn't in any better shape than his friends as a purple bruise began to welt on his cheek. Martinez had delivered one hell of a hit with his rifle under the means of subduing the frantic Asian. Effective and quick, Merle thought.

But what Merle found the most interesting was Glenn's outfit. He'd only seen police wear that and wondered where he managed to acquire it.

Once his eyes landed on Merle, Glenn frowned with dislike. There was a ferocity in them that Merle had not known the boy to posses.

"Well, hello there, Chinaman." Merle walked around the tied up man with the unhurried pace of a sloth. A lazy smile greeted the boy, but there was malice resting snugly behind it. He hadn't forgotten what happened in Atlanta. "You can't even believe how _happy_ I am to see you again. You and Rick…We should organize a goddamn fiesta. What you say?"

"Let us go." The boy spat, his features chiseled out of stone.

Merle tsked as if rebuking a misbehaving child. "Now, you know that ain't gonna happen. We have so much to talk about, but my first question is—Where's my brother?"

There was no humor present in him now. Merle wanted answer and he was willing to do _anything_ to get them.

Glenn's lips pursed. His silence was his answer.

Merle sighed as he stopped in front of the younger man. He knew they would arrive at this impasse and he still dreaded it. Not because of the hurt he would have to inflict, but because it just made his job harder.

"I guess you want to take the hard road." His metal hand rose and Glenn eyed its deadliness with unease. "Fine by me."

* * *

Their steps were haunting in the darkness of the corridor.

The Governor's face flashed as he passed the large glassless windows of the abandoned factory. The sun was setting and the dim orange light created dancing shadows across his forbidding features, likening him to a wraith.

There was a grimness in the air. As if even the slightest sound could shift the ever darkening mood. The hollowness of the hall was similar to that of a tomb's, cold and hostile. Spider webs and dust, thick as a finger, blanketed over the now defunct working benches and apparatuses. Pieces of glass were strewn across the floor, dirtied and soiled from years of unuse. Even before the virus, this hulking building had been long abandoned. Its presence had loomed ominously over the town of Woodbury, a reminder of days passed.

The bald man, Bruce, that had restrained Michonne walked faithfully behind the Governor. He seemed rigid, all his muscles locked tightly as his eyes peered furtively to his leader. He was nervous, not of the growing darkness, but of the man himself. He'd never seen the Governor so _angry_ before.

It didn't help that he knew where they were headed.

"Is she tightly secured?" The Governor's sudden booming voice had Bruce jump in startle. He was twice the size of the Governor, yet the slender man could still instill enough fear in him by his voice alone.

He'd seen too much of his leader's warped mind to not be on edge.

"Yes, sir. She can barely move her fingers and she's calmed down from her rage."

"Good." He hissed once he touched his tender ear, or what was left of it. "She bit my goddamn ear off…I can't believe this."

Almost like a vivid dream he once had, but it was startling real and yet his mind still couldn't catch up to that fact. These people were Samara's group. The one she claimed she had lost touch with. Even as the group related a similar story to that of Samara's, the Governor had still been skeptical of believing it. If these were the people that had split from Samara, then why the large gap between the months? Samara had something short of a month and the others said they had been alone since winter. For three people to survive the harsh winter that passed, it seemed unlikely they would remain so healthy and well fed without a hint of fatigue.

–And armed.

But once that _word_ came into play, the Governor knew without a shadow of a doubt that the former marshal and those three were connected. Walker was not exactly a named everyone used for the dead. Hell, even the Governor had never heard it before.

 _Wait…_

Did Merle ever use it? He did come from the same people, so in the beginning when he first arrived in Woodbury, wouldn't he also have referred to the biters as _walkers_? Shouldn't he have recognized the name the moment it came out of the woman's mouth days or even weeks ago?

Doubt crawled through the synapses of his brain, but one thing was certain in the man's mind. The time of trust was coming to a swift end. He might have to keep a closer eye on his own men from now on.

The Room was the Governor's most secluded part of Woodbury, where no one was allowed to venture without his say. The thick walls had been reinforced as a precaution so no sound could worm its way out to the ears of his naïve people. They wouldn't understand.

As they neared it through an empty hall lined with burning camp lanterns, they heard a voice whispering austerely.

"I'm trying alright! But I can't!"

It was the woman.

Who was she talking to, the Governor wondered with trepidation. Had one of his people went against his orders and stepped inside his secret domain?

His steps quickened.

"I just can't break loose, the ropes are too tight!" Her voice hitched, losing the ire and giving into defeat. "I…I can't…"

The two men stopped in front of the metal door. It was still locked, with no sign of damage. They both looked to each other for answers, but found none.

Well, there was only one way the Governor could know of this strange development.

Bruce grunted as he cracked the lock and raised the metal door, creaking with old rust and disuse. There was a shape hidden in the darkness of the chilly room and as the light of the hallway illuminated the empty insides, a kneeling woman was revealed. Her arms were stretched up in the air, bound by taunt, thick ropes that cut into her skin. There was nobody else in the room.

Michonne's words were cut short as soon as the iron gate opened.

"I'm sorry, were we interruptin' you?" The Governor entered the dark room and watched with indifference as the woman glared hellfire. "I wonder just who exactly were you havin' such a spirited conversation with, cause I don't see anyone here with you. Actually, never mind. I don't give a damn." For all he cared, she could be insane. "Let's get this started. You can go now, Bruce. I'll take it from here."

The man hesitated, but one look from his leader had him skip out of the room as quickly as humanly possible. He didn't want to be here once the screaming started.

"Tell me…" The Governor walked calmly towards the chained woman. His voice was as flat as stone and as cold as a corpse's. Gone was any semblance of amiability, left in its wake only brutality. "How long do you think it'll take me to ruin your life? Shatter your sense of security? Really destroy your soul?"

His fingers brushed her cheek, no lighter than a feather. Michonne's teeth snapped at them with the aggressiveness of a wild animal. The Governor chuckled without any amusement as his fingers continued on its way past her shoulder and up her arms. Michonne growled, loathing that deceptively gentle touch from the bottom of her stomach.

The man moved behind her and Michonne strained herself to see what he was doing, but to no avail. It was too dark in the room, even for her trained eyes. The moment a hand reach from the darkness and Michonne heard the click of her belt being unbuckled, her mind went blank with absolute and utter _horror_.

Thin, chapped lips attached themselves to her ear and whispered so soft and gentle that Michonne felt as if she were being dunked in ice.

"I think half an hour would suffice."

Her pupils dilated into coins.

 _No…Not this. Anything but this._

Michonne's mind screamed for her to fight, to run, but her binds were too skintight. Those unscrupulous hands spoke more words than his voice ever could— _there is no escape_.

With increasing dread, Michonne watched as those hands pushed down her zipper with deliberate slowness. The sharp sound reverberated across the empty room, racking the woman's hyperactive brain. She felt a faintness overcome her as those horrible hands pushed her jeans along with her panties down, exposing her for his eyes to see.

Michonne's teeth gritted until she almost felt them give way and chip under the pressure. _This motherfucker…_

She'd survived hordes of walkers, walked among them without a hint of fear, escaped people chasing her with guns and knives, outsmarted and overcame them and now…she was defeated at the hands of this Jim Jones wannabe type.

Callous hands traveled down her naked, lean thigh and Michonne felt her stomach bubble up with painful bile. Another rope that seemingly materialized out of the shadows winded tightly around her ankle. The woman hissed as her leg was spread out as far as possible.

Her heart was like a drum in her chest, with each passing second increasing in its pace. _This_ was happening. She could see it play out just before her eye and Michonne was incapable of stopping it. This was the worst feeling in the world. Complete and total powerlessness. Subjugation to this mad man who had nothing but wicked and deplorable intentions towards her.

Her other leg was forcefully spread and just as tightly immobilized and all Michonne wanted to do was rage and wail at what was being done to her so unjustly and cruelly. But she knew if she let out even a gasp so early, it would give her captor the satisfaction he craved at seeing her in despair.

His breath stirred the stray locks of her hair and she knew he was once again behind her. His breathing were like razors across her skin, cutting into her flesh without restraint, and she wished she could cry freely. But her throat was clogged and she could barely even utter a word at how petrified and in shock she was.

Those callous hands settled on her hips as he once again whispered _sweetly_ into her ear. "But really, I plan on doing this every day as often as I can until you figure out a way to kill yourself. Any thoughts on that?"

Michonne pursed her lips, her teeth sinking into her plump flesh. The taste of copper assaulted her buds and it only accentuated her need to wretch.

The Governor sighed in approval as he looked over his handiwork. The woman was spread eagle before him and there was nothing she could do to save herself.

His hands reached for his own belt.

"This is gonna be fun."

* * *

Sob.

Hiccup.

Wail.

The binds around her ankles laid lifelessly on the cold floor. Michonne was hunched over herself as far down as her restrained arms would let her. Her whole body wouldn't stop convulsing as the sobs racked through her system. She tried holding them in, but this time her resolute strength left her. The stone wall she had built to keep everyone out crumbled before her very eyes. There was nothing that could keep the tumultuous waters inside her from calming down. Not as blood and other fluids dripped down her inner thigh.

She felt so strange, as if devoid of any weight, any thought. There was simply static running throughout her mind. Even blinking became a chore. Michonne knew she was in shock, but she simply couldn't do anything about it.

The Governor had finished with her after what seemed like days, months, _years_ …Michonne had no idea how many hours they had been locked up in this tiny, oppressive room, but it had been enough to last ten lifetimes. The relief she felt once he stopped couldn't be measured. She had never prayed more in her life than in those long, painful moments, hoping for it all to end.

Maybe someone up there actually heard her and spared her of any further grief.

It was too late, though. The damage was already done and Michonne was permanently scarred. She would never forget this or the man that dealt it.

Her dark, coffee eyes peered through her dreads at the man responsible for all her heartache. He looked no worse for wear as he looped his belt, calm as a summer's day. There was nothing in him that conveyed the depraved act he had committed upon her body. There was no guilt, not even a little bit of shame.

He truly was a _monster_.

"I'll admit, I got a little carried away…" He said as he brushed his hands of the dampness and gathered grit. He looked to Michonne with that dead look that both terrified her and made her want to gouge his eyes out. "But I don't regret a thing. I enjoyed every minute of it, but I don't think you did." He crouched low, looking at the tears flowing down her cheeks. "You go ahead and cry it out. You earned it. Nothin' to be ashamed of."

Michonne hiccuped as she raised her head. Despite the agony and desolation swimming in her coffee browns, there was a rage in there that bordered on madness.

"I'm-I'm not crying for me." She sniffled before snarling ungodly. It reminded him of a cornered animal that had its paw stuck in a trap, hissing and snapping at anyone that approached it. "I'm crying for _you_. I think about all the things I'm going to do to you and it makes me cry." Her eyes widened until the sclera could be seen, making her look touched in the head. "It _scares_ me."

Perhaps all that vigorous _activity_ had really broken her in more ways than one.

"That's cute." The man scoffed not in the least intimidated. She was an ensnared animal after all. "Someone's gonna come later to clean you up, maybe give you some bandages. But mostly, Bruce'll just get you ready for when I come back. Get some rest. You'll need it."

Her damnable eyes burned into the back of his head as he left the room. The door lowered with a groan, thrusting the woman back into complete darkness. The Governor placed the lock back on and walked away, more stress-free than he had been coming here.

It had been just what he had needed to vent the uncontrollable wrath building inside him. He was familiar with what he could do under the influence of his rage once it reached its pinnacle and he did not want to witness that again. It even worried him.

As the Governor passed the broken windows, he realized with surprise that it was night time. Had he really been holed up in that room for so long?

Checking his watch, the Governor realized with an amused huff that he had completely lost track of time. It was midnight, where no one save the night shift was still awake.

But with this realization came the notion that bedtime had come and gone.

"Shit!"

His steps quickened as he anxiously marched towards his house.

 _She_ was going to be very cross with him.

* * *

His apartment door opened with a flurry of keys.

The Governor walked briskly through his unlit abode until he reached an opened door. It had bolts and a chain on it, making one wonder just what awaited on the other side.

From deep within the darkness came a hiss. Not the kind from a cat or any other animal, but something entirely inhuman. Two tiny beacons of light lit up in the darkness. Slow feet dragged across the old carpet and the sound of metal rattling carried over to his ears.

"I know, I know." He smiled abashed as he crouched low, a safe distance from the opened door. "Sorry I was out so late. i just lost track of time, sweety."

Out of the murkiness of the room, a girl emerged. She groaned in a monster's voice as her sickly, pale arms clawed towards the man. She snarled as soon as she caught his appetizing scent, her slow shuffled turning into a frenzy of arms and legs. The girl reached out for him with her teeth snapping, but the collar around her neck stopped her shortly of touching the still smiling man. The chain connected to her collar was extended rigidly from inside the dark room.

"What's got you so upset?" The man frowned, actually disheartened at the girl's agitated state. "You haven't tried attackin' me in months. I know I'm late, but you know I'm a busy man. I told you this already."

But as the girl's frenzied state increased, his eyes found the cause of her disturbance. The bucket full of meat that he had given her before his meeting with the sword wielding woman was turned over and a long distance from them.

"Dammit, sweety." He rose to his feet and collected the meat that scattered on the floor. "You need to be more careful. You knock the bucket out of your reach, you'll starve. Here you go."

The bucket was gently placed in front of her and the undead girl feasted on the sweetness inside. The tiny thing filled her mouth with the not-so-fresh meat, but it didn't seem to bother her. She looked almost happy as she gorged herself.

"I'll get you some more, honey, but right now I'm tired. You'll just have to wait until I wake up." He rose to his feet and with tenderness uncharacteristic of him, he petted the distracted girl's head. There was only love and warmth in those dark eyes as he gazed down at the girl chomping on human meat.

"Daddy loves you so much, Penny. 'Night."

He left the girl to her late dinner and headed towards one of the rooms he also kept under lock. As the neon light of the many tanks lined up against the wall illuminated his presence, the man tiredly dropped onto a comfortable, leather armchair. He was so tired. The endeavors of this entire day, especially of those with the woman had exhausted him beyond a doubt.

The only thing he wanted was to sleep for an entire day and forget, at least for a few hours, that this day ever happened.

His half-lidded eyes fleeted superficially over the aquariums. Over a dozen of severed undead heads watched him back eerily. As the Governor's gaze lethargically moved from one to another, he finally came upon the last in his collection—the man from the helicopter.

It was a shame the man had no vital information to share. He and the two others had been holed up in a shopping mall in Virginia when a group of bikers found them and decided to thrash the mall. They fought back, ready to defend their turf, but when the undead appeared soon after, they had all agreed that the mall was a lost cause and abandoned it. They had boarded the helicopter that they had first arrived in and flew away. They had been flying on an empty tank once they reached Georgia.

His wounds had been too extensive and his knowledge too little, so the Governor had seen no need to keep him alive.

The helicopter man stared at him with milky eyes, almost judgmentally if one looked from a different perspective. But the Governor felt nothing as all those eyes had him in the center of attention.

He just wanted to sleep, and that he did peacefully under the ever vigilant gaze of his trophies.

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_ I don't know how many of you read the comics, but some of the events in this chapter are from there. At first I wanted to concentrate only on Samara's POV, but considering that not everyone is a comic reader, I thought better and included them. I don't want any misunderstandings. Although, some parts were _slightly_ modified (I couldn't cut off Rick's hand. He still needs it, dammit!).

Michonne…Damn, poor woman. When I read the comics it was hard enough, but writing it, even only hinting at what happened, is highly uncomfortable.

It's gonna be a _long_ night for our heroes.


	42. And Hell Followed with Him

_**Author's Note:**_ There was an angry **Guest** that left a review about how I was able to write Michonne getting raped and not cutting off Rick's hand like in the comics, as if Michonne was some kind of subspecies (seriously?). The only thing I have to say is that Rick needed that hand. I couldn't see my story unfold with him only having one.

Michonne had a deep rage towards the Governor both in the comics and show, and since Andrea hadn't chosen him over her, there was only one other option left. Did I like writing it? Hell no. It freaked me out, but for events to follow that had to happen. I said I would combine the comics with the TV show, and that means I don't have to introduce everything if it doesn't suit the story. You don't like it? Stop reading my fic and move on. It's that simple.

* * *

The sun peeked behind the distant hills and forests, shyly allowing its rays to illuminate the vast blanket of darkness. The birds, in reaction to warm light basking their dew covered feathers, shook off the excess and chirped merrily, announcing the beginning of a new day.

Glenn would have loved such a morning. Waking up next to Maggie, her soft flesh against his own, spooning for warmth. He would sometimes wake up early and listen to her gentle breathing, treasuring each one with a possessiveness and melancholy that had him desperately tighten his hold on her. In this world, one could never know how many more sunrises they would catch together. He wanted each and every one to be permanently ingrained into his mind, never to be forgotten.

—He never wanted to forget those moments with her.

But now, Maggie's loveliness was furthest away from him his body. He sat in a cold cell with barely any light, strapped tightly to a chair while Merle popped his bruised knuckles. He could barely see anything as one of his eyes was swelled shut. Blood dripped from his now broken nose, staining his lips ruby red while the various cuts smudged blood all over his face.

He was a mess. Merle hadn't limited himself to only damaging his face. His stomach had been thoroughly pummeled while his chest rose jaggedly with each breath. Every bone in his upper body hurt. His skin was on the verge of bursting and he was dangerously on the edge of losing consciousness.

Worse…Merle was barely even tired.

"I gotta hand it to you, you're a lot tougher than I remember." Merle settled on the old table pushed against the other junk clustered around the room. This part of the cells had been used as a deposit of old and broken things since they hadn't been occupied in months. "So tell me, where y'all been at?"

"It's just a matter of time before they come looking." Glenn spat a phlegm of blood. To his ultimate horror, he could a feel a tooth wiggle.

"I'll bake a cake with pink frostin'. Would they like that?" His amusement died down in favor of grimness atypical of him. "Ain't nobody comin', boy."

"They will. And when they get here—"

"Your people gonna do nothin', not if they want you and the motley crew back. Think I'm in this by myself?"

"You can't take us all. There's too many of us."

Merle scoffed. "There ain't a pair of nuts between the whole pussy lot of you."

"We've been on the road, not hiding in some dungeon." Glenn bared his teeth, hating the man before him with every fiber of his being. Didn't matter that they once survived together; Merle was nothing more than an enemy now. "Rick, Shane, Dale, Jim, Andrea…We even found new people along the way, _strong_ people. You and these freaks can't hold a candle to us!"

There was truth to his words, but even Glenn felt a slither of doubt. These people had the advantage in numbers, true, but his group had lived through too much to be simply taken down. Their will to survive was much stronger.

A grin halted his bold thoughts. While the corners of Merle's lips were upturned, that smirk was miles away from reaching his flat eyes. "Really? Is one of those people an Indian by the name of Samara? Devious woman with an aggressive streak?"

Glenn blinked in stupefaction. He had not expected that retort. What did their conversation have to do with Samara? Unless…

"She's here, your friend." That infuriating smile only sharpened once he noticed the realization dawn upon the young man. "She's been here for the past couple of weeks. First a prisoner then a member of the community and now back to bein' a prisoner all thanks to your arrival."

"What?" Glenn's agitated thoughts tried to keep up with Merle's onslaught of information.

"You don't need to know." His smile left him in place of harsh features, eyes glinting like hard sapphires. "Just tell me this—the squaw, is she with my brother?"

The look he received had Merle believe he had sprouted a second head. His patience was running thin and he had no time for the kid's gaping fish mouth.

"Is she fuckin' him? Are they amigos in bed? Are they all lovey-dovey with each other?" He stressed. "How else should I explain it, dipshit?"

"I don't…"

The lost gaze and the slow answers had been all Merle needed to know.

"Knew she was a fuckin' liar." Merle hissed under his breath irately. That woman would attempt anything to get out of her bleak situation. "So, let's try this again. Where's my brother?"

As if waking up from a stupor, Glenn blinked hard and his features dropped into a heavy scowl. Nothing but pure malice emanated and Glenn probably hoped that nastiness would melt Merle into a puddle of goo.

"Fuck you!"

Merle stood, at an end to his patience. He hoped it wouldn't come to this, but life never once paved him an easy path.

"Have it your way. I prepared somethin' for you in case you were stubborn again today."

His absence from the room was short, but once he came back in, Merle got the desired effect. Glenn's whole face morphed into horror as the walker snapped its teeth at him with a ravenous look. Merle struggled to hold the monster in place as it thrashed in its leash to break free and munch on Korean appetizer, but there was no mistaking the immense pleasure it brought the one armed man. The look on Glenn's face was what he had been waiting for.

"Now, I want you to imagine how I felt fightin' my way off that roof- one hand, losin' blood, bitters chompin' down at me every step of the way!" Not even this compared to the dismaying situation he had lived through. At least Glenn hadn't lost a hand…yet. "Last chance. Where's your group?"

Despite the threat staring with down with increasing hunger, Glenn held his stand. There was nothing Merle could do that would make Glenn talk, and it became annoyingly obvious to the older man.

"All right, suit yourself!" Merle spat angrily. He was beyond furious. Enough that he forgot his initial reason for using the undead and that was not to kill. "You're a pretty big snack for this fella, but you know what they say- he's gonna be hungry again in an hour."

The metal pole opened with a foreboding click.

Glenn's eyes widened in apprehension.

"Go! Run, boy!"

Merle let the beast loose and with a snarl, it threw itself at Glenn. With a scream, Glenn tried to shake off his tight bonds, but it was hopeless. Merle had made an exemplary job out of those knots.

With a smile that would put a devil to shame, Merle retreated from the cold cell and shut the door to the carnage about to happen. The boy had brought this on himself with his silence.

* * *

With a harsh gasp did Rick's eyes open.

The sterile whiteness of the room was what greeted him out of his dreadful nightmares, but once his vision grew clearer, the presence of the doctor and his assistant became obvious. His plan to sit up was cut short as he found his hands cuffed to the metal railing. A precaution for his earlier outburst, no doubt. There was no escape for him.

The old man with the stern expression came forward and Rick could see him clearly now, void of the agitation and chaos. He was not as strict as before, his features worn out from the a heavy weight resting on his shoulders. There was a bandage across his swollen nose and Rick could spot cracks in his glasses.

"You the one that patched me up?" Rick's voice came out raspy, his throat as dry as sand. He dearly needed a glass of water.

"Best I could." The man looked fleetingly over the documents in his grip. "Aside the hand, you have some bruises and internal bleedin'. Everythin' looks good so far. Are you gonna attack me again?"

Despite the exhaustion in the man's eyes, there was a resolution in them that gave an edge. Even Rick in his soreness could tell that the man was cautious of him, even bounded as he was.

"No." _Not like I can…_

But as the haze lifted from his mind came the startling realization that there was one person missing from the equation.

"Samara!"

Forgetting his state, he rose from the bed and with a clang came to a full stop, hissing in pain as he added strain on his injured hand. How could he have forgotten? Samara had been a few meters from him and he hadn't been able to do a goddamn thing but lay down and struggle futilely as the doctor injected him with a sedative.

Samara was _alive_. He couldn't believe it.

"She's in a cell, far from here." The doctor informed him, not a change in expression.

Rick fell back on the mattress, his bones weary. With the knowledge of her existence came the frightening fact that Samara was in as much trouble as he was.

"Was she hurt?"

"A few bruises, but I don't know for how long it'll remain so… _light_."

Forgetting his self-control, Rick snarled like a frenzied beast. "You son of a bitch!"

"I'm not the one you should be cursin', Mr. Grimes. I never once held any ill intentions towards your friend, even if she did punch me."

The man Samara had been fighting…

"Who is he? This madman runnin' this place?"

Stevens, as he heard Samara call him, settled his papers aside and breathed in deeply. He sat on the bed next to Rick's and looked the man profoundly in the eye. The exhaustion was more prominent now than ever.

"He used to be a good man. When he came here, we were headin' nowhere. He saved us from our own self-inflicted despair. He gave us hope. He does what has to be done, what needs to be done to keep the people safe, but then…" His brow furrowed as memories came to light, dark ones that still made his skin tingle. "After a while it was clear to some of us that he was doin' this more out of his own enjoyment. He was an evil bastard that wanted to create his own dictatorship and we couldn't do a goddamn thing about it."

"Why do you allow him to go on?" Stevens' words made his heart clench in dread. His and his friends future dimmed with each new piece of information.

"What do you think he'd do to anyone who opposed him? I hate the son of a bitch, but I can't do anythin'. Whatever else he is, he keeps everyone here safe. That's enough for most of us. As long as he keeps the biters on the other side of the Wall, the people don't care what kind of person the Governor is. Hell, they're practically in full denial."

"Well said, Stevens."

A chill crawled underneath their flesh as cold as winter's harsh wind. Rick watched with his breath held tightly as the Governor strode into the room, his beady eyes firmly settled on the bedridden man.

"What is it?" Stevens croaked as his leader plopped onto a bed.

"My bandage needs changin'." He spoke patiently. "You said so yourself."

The man nodded, almost forgetting his appointment with the man. "I'll make it quick. I'm sure you got more important things to do."

As Stevens gathered his tools, Rick's eyes strayed no further than the Governor's. They were locked in a deadly match; two wolves skirting around each other, testing the boundaries. The man was an impenetrable wall, Rick thought. Despite his experience in reading other people's intentions, the Kentucky sheriff was at a loss when it came to this particular individual.

"You look well." The Governor spoke deceptively soft. "Healin' up nicely?"

"How did Samara end up here?" Rick would not play into his little mind games. He needed to asses the situation at hand first.

"She came to us two weeks ago. Brought here by some people I associated with on occasion. Initially, she had a different purpose altogether. You see, you friend was meant for the arena, but considerin' her injuries at the time, I couldn't in good nature allow it." A sharp smirk curled the edges of his lips. "She grew on me. I saw the value she held and gave her a second chance, and the woman took it."

"What about Oscar? Where is he?" There was a deep rooted anxiety inside Rick. He had seen neither hide nor hair of Oscar, not even a mention of his name and Rick was starting to fear the worst.

The Governor shrugged, nonplussed. "The woman came alone. But from what I understood the man that was supposed to be delivered with Samara was killed. Shot in the back, actually, for tryin' to escape."

He should be used to it, this feeling of desolation. What was one more death in the light of many? Yet, Rick felt the same nauseating tightening in his stomach that made him want to dry heave every time one of his own died. During quiet nights, he would pray for numbness to Death's touch, but no one seemed to listen. He was alone in his grief.

They had only known each other a scant few months, but Rick still saw Oscar's death as if it had been one of his oldest friends'.

 _The burnt corpse at the farm…It was Oscar, after all._

A rustle and Rick gazed upon a familiar turquoise beaded necklace that hung lifelessly from the Governor's heartless grip.

"Tell me, sheriff Grimes. Was your friend always this cunning and…" He smirked as his eyes traveled to the lump on his shoulder where a bandage was. "Spirited?"

"She's a character." Rick's lips pursed.

"And here I thought I brought that out of her. Heh..." The man looked _almost_ fondly as he caressed the necklace. "She really hoodwinked me. I guess I have myself to blame in the end for trustin' a viper in the grass." Those dismal eyes with a tinge of cruelty returned to the sheriff. "You're lucky to have someone like that on your side. People of her skills and perceptiveness are hard to come by these days. Stupid and strong are 'a plenty. Too bad that now I have to dispose of that ability."

It was like an electric current.

Rick snarled as he pushed himself against his bonds, wishing to all that was holy that he could break then and wrap his fingers tightly around this bastard's throat. He had never wanted to kill someone more than in that very moment.

"Don't worry, you'll join her soon enough." The Governor smirked as he watched Rick struggle like a butterfly stuck on a web. "I got plans for you. You're gonna go into the arena and die fightin' my men. Can't just let to waste a perfectly fit candidate."

"You ain't gonna torture me?" Rick spat hatefully as veins bulged underneath the skin from the strain.

"Would be a waste of time. I know your type. You're ain't gonna say anythin'. No…" That smirk turned to something wholly inhuman. "I'm gonna torture the others and get them to talk."

"What did you do to Glenn?!" Rick yelled as the metal bit into his skin. "To Michonne?!"

On reflex, the Governor touched his ear. Just the name of her had him wince with memory. "The woman that bit my ear off…Oh, I had _fun_ with her."

Rick paused in his struggle, fear coiling in his stomach. He did not like the sound of that. The Governor seemed almost sickeningly pleased. What had he done to her?

"As for the young man, he's gettin' to reconnect with Merle. Talk about good times and whatnot."

—In other words, Merle was beating the hell out of Glenn.

"You son of a bitch!"

"Struggle all you like, but you ain't gonna solve anythin' apart from some new bruises." Those dead eyes saw nothing more than a critter. An ant to be squashed at his own leisure. "Your life is forfeit. The rest of your days will be spent here, entertainin' my people with your gradual demise. Your friends are as good as dead, and soon, I will find the rest of your camp and they'll also meet the same fate. It's _inevitable_. The strong will devour the weak. As it has always been and will be."

That sinister tone made Rick feel like the man was foretelling the future not just delivering a threat. He seemed so certain of himself, almost making Rick believe those terrible words. But he would not waver. If he did all hope was lost and his family would suffer the consequences of it.

The thought of this monster within reach of Carl and Lori with their unborn baby made his resolve turn to granite. He would not let them die.

"I think you'll find that we're not so weak as you perceive us to be. We ain't the kind of people you want to mess with." His unbendable gaze traveled to his bandaged ear. "I think you got a taste of it yourself."

The Governor's lips pursed into a scowl, the painful memory still fresh on his mind.

"A lapse, but one I'm enjoyin' to the fullest. You think you got it hard?" The Governor scoffed as he none too gently pushed aside the doctor and advanced on the restrained man, that scowl growing ghastlier by the second. "You should see your friend." Just a foot away, the man's voice lowered to a dreadful whisper. "Do you know what it takes to break a strong woman? To get her to her knees?" His eyes closed in perverse pleasure, making the hairs on Rick's body stand on end. "I can still smell her tears as they rolled down her cheeks."

Pause.

It didn't take long for Rick to understand those ghoulish hints and all the blood drained from his face. He felt sick.

 _No…_

He felt so hopeless as he struggled against the cold, harsh metal. He wanted to rage and scream in frustration at what was being done to them…to his friends. A thousand deaths wouldn't suffice for this man and no torture would be equal to the pain he inflicted upon Michonne. Had he no consciousness? He only needed a minute…a few seconds of freedom and he would break his neck.

Once they were free, no matter when that happened, Rick swore he would exact revenge. There would be no barrow or corner to hide in this wide, empty world where this bastard could hide. Nothing could save him from the wrath scorching his very soul.

Despite having no awareness of the man's silent vow, the Governor could almost see his intentions reflecting off those sky blue eyes and he _laughed_.

The lion had no fear of the mouse, after all.

* * *

A day had passed with no sign of them.

Tyreese looked beyond the prison's walls and saw nothing but looming trees and the dead shuffling towards the chain fence. His entire being felt restless. His friends and Michonne had been gone enough time to make him worry. Tyreese had never been one to jump to conclusions, but in these desolate times anything could happen within a moment's notice. He had no doubt that the trio could take care of themselves, but still…there was a limit to what anyone could handle.

First Samara and Oscar and now this…Perhaps they were cursed after all.

The creak of the rusty metal door announced a visitor.

He sneaked pale hair the color of straw from the corner of his eye. Andrea stared out with a deep frown, her worry weighting just as heavily as it did his.

"I guess you don't like this anymore than I do."

Andrea let out a jagged sigh as she clasped her hands over the railing. "Somethin's happened."

This was on everyone's mind. Whenever someone remained more than a night outside the gates, it meant trouble was afoot.

"Yeah, I get the same feeling. Something is holding the others up and it ain't good." Tyreese wouldn't sugar coat it. The woman beside him had been in enough difficult situations to warrant more than honeyed words. Besides, he was sure she wouldn't believe him.

"Walkers, maybe?" Andrea's gaze narrowed over the bright sun. It was especially warm today, making sweat pour out of her pores. "Or do you think they found Samara and Oscar?"

Tyreese shook his head. He didn't want to tell Andrea that hope for Oscar and Samara was as thin as a needle. That he believed they were lost to them and that they would never truly find out what happened. Unfortunately, that was the truth of the world now. Once lost, there were little chances of being found.

"I just hope that they got held up over the night and not something more serious."

The roar of an engine sputtered in the distance.

Both tower watches perked their ears up, their hearts in their throats as a motorcycle appeared from behind verdant bodies. It was not glee that coursed through their veins, but a black tarry pit that glimpsed only despair.

It was on both their minds—

"He's alone."

Hope sunk heavier than a stone in the river.

With quick feet, both descended the tower two steps at a time. They were not the only ones in a hurry to reach the hunter. Everyone was outside, waiting with anxiety tightly clenching their stomachs. The group was restless, desperate for news. Every foreign sound had them on their feet, eyes wide with trepidation. Friends and family alike were misplaced, bringing Maggie to silent grief and leaving Lori in a constant state of fear that did no good for the baby. Carl kept himself strong for his mother, but he too was scared. It could be seen in those shimmering orbs so like his father's.

Daryl stopped the engine as soon as he passed the metal fence and he did not look happy. The others gathered around him, each voicing their thoughts in a cacophony of sound. Daryl's frown deepened as the voices became unintelligible, grating on his ears like sandpaper.

"Enough, dammit!" He snarled, annoyed with everyone ganging up on him. "I can't even think with you yappin' like Chihuahuas!"

"Everyone, settle down." Hershel's gentle but firm voice managed to quiet the roaring crowd. "We can't talk like this."

"Did you find anythin', Daryl?" Lori was the first to break the silence, anxiety choking her voice.

With heavy reluctance, Daryl gave them the answer they all dreaded—he shook his head.

The pregnant Grimes teared up, her hand settling on her inflated belly for comfort. Her breath came in short gasps as the tears rolled down her high cheeks.

"Mom, calm down." Carl, in reaction to his mother's distress, grew solemn. He watched, powerless, as his mother worked herself up into a frenzy. He knew that whatever words of relief he would tell her would crash against deaf ears.

"I can't!" She hiccuped, her voice thin as a sheet of paper. "Oh god. Is Rick—"

"I didn't say that, Lori." Daryl tried to placate the distressed woman in his own way, despite the fact that the sight of her tears made him highly uncomfortable. "I just said I didn't find 'em."

"Not even the car?" Maggie quipped in a steady voice, holding herself strong. But everyone could see the tight grip she kept on her sister's hand. An anchor in this troubled storm.

"There ain't no trace of 'em where they were supposed to be."

Nothing. Not even a sign they had been there. Daryl would have been happy to find even a bit of blood, but nothing seemed fresh. Their car was gone leading him to believe the trio had left for somewhere, but where and why? If it had been something important Rick would have left word behind, Daryl knew it. A cardboard with some words or spray paint across a wall or a car…but there was nothing. They just vanished.

 _Like Samara. Never to be seen again.._

Daryl pushed that nasty thought away. This was not the time to think about _that_. It was bad enough that Rick and Glenn and Michonne disappeared without a word, he didn't need to add Samara's plight on top at the moment. It would be too much.

Panic rose once again among the prison occupants. They whispered, cried and talked among each other without direction. They were lost and confused and scared as more of their own started vanishing without an explanation. Daryl understood their grief as he too suffered.

For once in his life, Daryl had no idea on what to do. Rick was the leader of their group, he always had a course set for them and Daryl followed, throwing his two cents when needed. But now, Rick was gone and Daryl was left in charge of this dissimilar group of survivors. The younger Dixon was no leader. He was clueless to what action he was supposed to take and this caused his blood to fester. He could feel it travel the length of his body, scorching his veins as it went, all the way up to his head. Even hearing became a grueling task.

"Stop it, you guys!" The one nobody expected to hear above a gentle whisper, raised her voice and captivated their attention. Beth looked furious, but there was no mistaking the flicker of fear behind those baby blue orbs. "This is Rick and Michonne and Glenn we're talkin' about! Do you have so little faith in 'em? They're alright, they probably just got caught up in somethin'."

Then why was doubt painted on all their faces? Wishing everything was alright was a comforting lie, but it was one they could not afford. This world, filled with the walking dead, had no mercy, so why should they keep themselves optimistic when there was nothing happy left in the world?

"Beth's right." Dale spoke, his bushy brows narrowing with assurance. "Don't go thinkin' the worse just yet. Those three can take care of themselves, no matter what comes their way. We don't need to worry, not after a day."

"Are you serious?!" Lori scoffed, furious with the old man. "Rick was in a hospital room by himself for a week, now he's out there! One day? Might as well be a year! I think I have a right to freak out here!"

"Don't forget that he's out there with Michonne, Lori." Andrea tried to placate the woman, but the words were probably meant more for herself than anything as the anxiety ate away at her confidence. "She's survived months on her own before I met her. Rick and Glenn are in good hands."

"That doesn't mean Michonne can't slip up. Or who knows, maybe they got separated? Or maybe the same people that got Oscar and Samara got them? What then, Andrea?"

Andrea dropped her gaze, unsure herself.

"Lori, you need to calm yourself." Hershel said with a softness he only reserved for his daughters. "This ain't doin' you any good."

Despite her mind screaming at her to continue raging to the heavens, Lori took a deep breath to pacify her uncontrollable grief. The life inside her was moving around restlessly in reaction to her distress, and she couldn't have the baby upset. She was nearing her due date and anything, either emotionally or physically, that could trigger early labor was ill advised.

Her chocolate gaze settled on Andrea, only this time without accusation. There was a measure of apology for her earlier ire followed by precarious strength, one that she clung to with dear life. "I know you're tryin' to make me feel better, but just stop. It's hard enough to raise a child in this world, let alone have a new one without worryin' about doin' it alone."

"Enough!" This was all Daryl's exhausted mind, his _soul_ could take. Their bickering and sobbing was getting them nowhere except for in a pit of stress. Despite feeling the gloom of their situation, he was not about to spiral down into all consuming misery. He was second-in-command, dammit!

"Until I see their bodies, I can't accept it." Daryl looked at all of them with anger, at himself and all their retched fate. Until he took his last breath, he would not have the others break down. He would have them keep on moving, even in the future looked bleak. "I won't. I _refuse_! They're not dead. They're still out there, somewhere. So everybody, calm the hell down! We ain't getting anywhere by panickin' or cryin'." His anger deflated as he watched their downcast faces, worry lines marring their features and exhaustion a constant companion in their weathered eyes. "Don't lose hope. They're gonna come back. I _know_ it."

Did he? Daryl was torn between being realistic and hopeful, and he knew deep down which side he leaned towards, even before Rick and the two others disappeared. He did not want to admit it, even to himself, but the truth was staring him in the face—

Once lost it was near impossible to be found again.

Samara was _lost_. That was the truth, no matter how much it pained him. He felt like his chest was being torn apart each time he thought about her, even more when he caught himself thinking in the past tense. Two weeks had passed with no sign of the temperamental marshal and even as stubborn as he was, Daryl understood that what was left of the Native were short, scattered memories and lifeless objects gathering dust in her cell.

He never thought it would hurt this badly, but he had underestimated his feelings towards her. Her scent, the smoothness of her hair, her jagged scars, that lean body he liked tracing his fingers over, her aggression that made their joining infinitely more passionate, her capricious nature, even her sometimes cold brush offs…he missed them all. Samara had managed to slitter through the cracks in the wall he kept around his heart and made herself a comfortable burrow, all without him ever noticing until it was too late. It seemed like everything that had been good in his life vanished before he could fully understand and appreciate. If only he had had a few more moments with her Daryl would have made her understand just what she had meant to him. But perhaps she had realized in the end. He had traded his life for hers, after all, and would do it again in a heartbeat.

Daryl wondered…If Samara was still alive out there somewhere, did she believe him to be dead as well?

A nasty voice scoffed deep in the dark bowls of his mind. _What else, you idiot. She saw you hang._

But with that thought came more questions—Was she also suffering as he was, if she still breathed? Daryl liked to believe so. He wanted to believe she missed him as much as he missed her, but he knew the former marshal was much more calculating and stone cold practical than he was. Samara was not one to give into sentimentality.

His heart clenched mournfully. How Daryl wished he could have held her just once without her sneering or pushing him away like he was a leper. So many things he would never experience with her and how they tortured him with fantasies that would never come true.

Sometimes he wished he viewed the world and its people as aloofly as he once did a lifetime ago, never putting anything to heart nor letting them fester into a rot. At least that way, it didn't hurt half as much.

"Are you gonna head back out again, Daryl?"

Hershel's kind voice snapped him out of his morbid thoughts. His mind had yet again slipped towards the woman when there were clearly more pressing matters like their recently missing companions and leader.

"No." His voice resounded firmly across the yard. He needed them to believe he had everything under control even as the world collapsed around them. "Right now, nobody's goin' out there. We're stayin' inside the prison."

Lori looked aghast and even offended. "You looked for Samara and Oscar for two weeks and you still do, but you can't do it for the people you've known longer? What kind of logic is that?"

"That's not fair, Lori." Carol snapped, hearing the ugly accusations in the other woman's tone.

"Why not? She has a point." Maggie hissed at the older woman, suddenly angry. Tensions were high in the air and it became unbearable once Daryl proclaimed his intent. "We should head back out there and look for the others."

"I ain't lettin' anyone go out there because we've already lost enough people!" It was Daryl the one that answered. He knew what it looked like. Looking for Samara even after they realized the house had been abandoned had been foolish. A smitten fool looking for sign in a gusty desert, but he was _sober_ now. Their continuous search and his inability to cut his losses was what led to this point. "What happens if I go out there and don't come back? Or Tyreese, or Andrea or anyone else? No…We stay put this time and we're gonna wait."

Because there was nothing else they could do. However long, they would wait but in the meantime they had to go on with their lives, no matter how painful it felt.

Daryl could see it on their faces—anger, fear, hopelessness, despair—and there was nothing he could about it. He had said all he could. Anything more and he himself would not believe the words. He was no leader to instantly give hope or comfort.

"Everyone…" Daryl's tone took on a measure of uncharacteristic gentleness. "Just go back to the prison."

It took a while for the crowd to disperse, each leaving in their own time. The setting sun cast forlorn shadows that trailed sadly behind them, almost as if they too mourned for their missing friends.

Daryl waited until everyone was away before turning to those that remained behind. They were the pillars of the group and Daryl would need their help if he intend to see everyone get through this crisis safely.

"Keep everyone busy." His blue gaze swept over Andrea, Tyreese, Sasha and Hershel, ever thankful for their support. "Give 'em a chore so they won't have to think about this fucked up disaster. I can't have 'em panic."

They nodded, but it was Sasha that came forward. Despite the bleak situation, she kept her hands steady and her chin held high.

"What if they don't come back?"

Daryl took in a deep breath. He knew what needed to be done, but he loathed to do it. He did not wish to be the bad guy, but he knew if it came to it, some of the group will despise him for it. What did Rick say to him once? Sometimes bad things had to be done for the greater good.

"Then…We stop searchin'. For _everyone_." Daryl's voice rang grimly in the slight spring breeze. He could see the growing hollowness in their eyes, but there was nothing to be done. He had to hold his ground, even as his heart bled. Daryl had unwillingly accepted this idea days ago, when he realized nobody would return to the house…When he realized Samara was well beyond his reach. "I was the one that insisted we look for Samara and Oscar. I just couldn't let it go. I tried once with Sophia and I failed. Should've just learned my lesson. It's _my_ fault. If they hadn't been out there lookin' for people we don't even know are alive, they wouldn't have disappeared without a trace."

"Don't say that, Daryl." To his surprise, it was Tyreese who repelled his self-accusations. Daryl had thought he would be the first to agree since his woman was out there. "We all agreed to look for them. This is nobody's fault."

"It's what anybody would have done, Daryl." Hershel backed the man up with a firm nod. "They are our friends. We couldn't just abandon them."

"Yeah…" Daryl scoffed at their reassuring words, not entirely believing them. "But was it the _realistic_ thing to do? It ain't like we got cellphones or GPS anymore to track people down. Once you're lost, there ain't no way back."

"I'm livin' proof that that's bullshit, Daryl." Andrea crossed her arms, annoyed with his discouraged words. "We've talked about this before—"

"Do you see any results? 'Cause I sure as shit don't!" In a fit of rage, he turned on the blond and snarled. How he wished he could slap the words out of her mouth. Yes, they had had this discussion before, but that was then and today was a different situation altogether. He had been under extreme distress back in Samara's cell, but now his mind was jaded and resigned to cruel reality. He was not blind anymore.

The others watched in mute silence as the Georgia hunter stalked off in anger, losing himself in the backyards of the prison, away from prying eyes. At first, Andrea had tried going after him, but Hershel put a stop to that thought.

"Leave him be, Andrea. He needs to be alone. That boy's got too much on his mind to listen to anyone right now."

Andrea gasped and held back the tears that threatened to erupt. Damn the fact that Tyreese, Sasha and Hershel could see her balk like a little girl, the blond just wanted to scream and rage. Anything to get rid of this sinking feeling in the pit of her soul.

"What the hell is goin' on, Hershel? Everyone is disappearin' on us, one by one." Andrea hid her face in her palms and shook her head, distraught. She felt so powerless. Her two friends were gone. Her _sisters_ … "I just don't understand anymore."

The old man squeezed her shoulder in reassurance, but he too himself was at a loss.

* * *

As his steps brought him closer, Merle could hear the brutalities that were happening past the metal door. Even through the thick walls, he could hear the grunts and the pained gasps and howls of anger. Merle had known from the beginning that the Governor was a curious bird, if not sick in the head, but that never deterred him from the man. This undead apocalypse had made them all a bit mad. How it manifested was none of Merle's business as long as it didn't put him in harm's way.

"Sir?"

Silence on the other side.

"What?" Merle could hear the strain and exhaustion in his voice, but his tidings couldn't wait. "I'm busy."

"You said you wanted updates on the boy if he talked."

"And?"

"Well…" Merle shuffled on his feet, none too happy with how things turned out. "He's loose now."

A long, chary pause.

"I'll be right out."

Merle waited patiently for the Governor to appear and he did not look happy. Beads of sweat covered his forehead and dampened his disheveled clothing. His breathing was labored but there was no trace of shame in those dead orbs. He was all business and cold vengeance.

The man never failed to put Merle on edge. He'd thought he'd seen everything people had to offer, but humanity still had a way to surprise him. The older man was only glad that the Governor was his ally and not his enemy. He'd seen what the Governor did with people he did not keep to heart, or generally did not care for as a human being.

"What happened?"

Now here came the ugly part. Merle was reluctant to reveal it, but sooner or later the Governor would find out and it would only be worse if he did not hear it from Merle's own mouth.

"I threw a biter in Glenn's cell and locked him inside with it." Merle was a creature of short temper and ever shorter patience. When they both flew the coop, his rational thinking went along with them. In retrospect, throwing a geek on the tide up Korean had not been one of his best ideas. Something he only realized when his anger subsided. "The boy actually managed to get out of his bonds and kill it."

Just when he had thought he would only find bits and pieces left of the kid, there he was, alive and healthy with a piece of broken wood in hand, changed into a makeshift weapon. The biter laid at his feet dead, while Glenn glared bloody murder.

 _The kid really has changed…_

But with that realization came the notion that Glenn had become harder to crack than he had initially believed. He was no longer that scrawny kid in Atlanta, scared of his own shadow. He was a man now, with purpose and hard resolve flickering in those dark almond eyes.

The Korean could not be so easily broken anymore. No, Merle thought, they needed to up their game if he was to ever learn the location of his baby brother.

"Why would you throw a biter in?" The Governor stared dumbfounded at the one-handed man. He could not follow Merle's reasoning, no matter which way he looked.

"Got pissed off."

Unfortunately, that was his only reason. Merle's temper was as fickle as cat's mood.

Governor sighed in frustration, pinching the bridge of his nose. This was not the first time he had had to deal with Merle's bursts of uncontrollable anger, nor were they supposed to be the last. But damn the man, if he wasn't getting tired of them.

Merle watched guardedly as the Governor took to pacing, his steps bouncing across the old concrete walls. He was thinking deeply judging by his furrowed brows and the cunning sparkle in his eyes. The older Dixon knew the only course of action now was to wait for the man to finish and give him instructions on what to do next. He could not keep on beating Glenn since the man would just further retreat. Merle had thought on switching his focus to the Kentucky sheriff, but knew that was a lost cause. That man was even more tight-lipped than the Korean. The black woman was out of the question and the squaw would just spit in his face while hurling insults, so his only hope after all was the boy. No matter how long it took, Merle swore he would have him talking.

The steps paused.

The Governor's eyes burned holes in the metal door. Merle could almost see the cogs spinning craftily inside his head and knew a plan was brewing in that warped mind of his.

"We'll use the woman."

Merle frowned and pointed towards the Room, uncertainly.

"Her?"

"No!" Governor hissed, annoyed with him not following his train of thought. "Samara." Michonne was out of the question. Her numbered days were to be spent in that dark room with no chance to ever see the light of day again. "If it takes torturin' her in front of him to make him talk, then so be it. Get the woman. I'll do this myself. And tell Martinez to be there also."

"Why Martinez?"

The way the Governor looked at him had him on edge. it was harsh and guarded, showing not even the slightest hint of his plan. Merle had only seen that look used on people the Governor did not trust.

"Got somethin' to speak with him."

Without another word, the Governor returned to the Room, leaving Merle behind to ponder anxiously at this unexpected change in behavior. Had he done something to warrant mistrust? It couldn't be because of Glenn. He'd done worse things before and the Governor had punished him accordingly, but he never once gave him that evasive look. Merle was his right hand…wasn't he?

As he left the factory, the lowering sun coated the sky in a bright scarlet color. The silence outside was that of a tomb's, cutting the skin and leaving him with only his own morbid thoughts for company.

An omen, Merle thought foreboding as he stared at the bloodshot heavens.

Blood will spill, but who's?

* * *

Light had Samara seeing stars as her eyes readjusted to brightness. Being left in the dark for hours on end had made her quite a mole, so her eyes burned from the change in scenery.

Merle entered her cell with a grim face.

"Merle, who was that you were beating up?" Samara wasted no time with pleasantries. She had none to give this man. The only thing she wanted was answers and the hope that she won't be left in the dark again. It did _wonders_ on the weary mind.

"Come on, sweetheart. We're takin' a small trip."

He pushed the wheeled chair out of her cell and down the cold hallway.

"Where are you takin' me?"

"To your chink friend." His smirk didn't reach his eyes. "Ain't I a nice guy?"

 _Glenn…_

So he had been the cause of those muffled shouts of pain. Gods only knew what Merle had done to him, but knowing this bastard of a man, he was probably thoroughly battered. Another reason to despise him.

Samara's heart beat thunderously against her rib cage as she spied the Governor and Martinez waiting at the door of a cell. They were speaking in hushed whispers, low enough that not even the young Korean behind the door could hear.

A venomous glare thundered across the Native's features at the sight of the bane of her existence. The whispers died down at the sight of her and the Governor regarded her with the cold air of antipathy.

—The feeling was mutual.

"Samara. Good to see you again." Although, from his expression it was anything but. "Now, normally, I ask people for favors out of politeness more than anythin', but in this instance it's self-explanatory. You will do as I want or it will cost you."

"I'm not going to do shit for you, you evil fucking bastard!" The nerve of this man, after everything he had done. She would sooner cut off one of her limbs than do him any favor. "What did you do with Michonne? With Rick?"

A sharp, resounding slap was her answer.

Samara had no time to recover as the man grabbed a fistful of hair and raised her face to his.

"You have no right to question me, Samara." Those dead eyes stared right into her soul, not a scrape of mercy found. "I'd advise you to guard that sharp tongue of yours, unless you want me to remove it. And trust me, I will do it _gladly_."

Samara scowled, but said nothing further. She believed the man to follow through with his threat.

"Good girl."

His tight grip loosened as Martinez opened the door and Samara was pushed inside by Merle, immediately followed by the others.

Samara wanted to howl in anger. Glenn, despite being free of his bonds, was beaten and bloodied. One of his eyes was swollen and close to being shut, while blood leaked from various cuts on his face. There was a walker downed on the floor and bits and pieces of a chair scattered across. The room looked like the sight of a frantic battle, but Glenn had been the one to emerge victorious, with a hand-made weapon in hand. He tried to rush his captors, seeing only red, but once his eyes settled on Samara, the rage seeped out of his features leaving him clad in astonishment.

"…Samara…"

How Samara wished their reunion wasn't so bloody. The sight of the young Korean had her chest swell with warmth, but reality crashed soon letting her know that they were still prisoners to a mad dog.

Merle was the first to react at the sight of the armed prisoner, his gun raised high. "Easy there, tiger. Don't break a tooth. Goddamn, son. You did one hell of a job on the bitter. Congratulations, you ain't a boy no more."

The mocking broke the spell the two companions shared. Glenn scowled in loathing and raised his weapon, intent to strike down Daryl's brother until life fled his mangled corpse.

Martinez joined Merle, his riffle pointed at the younger man. "Don't even think about it. Drop the weapon and take a step back."

"I suggest you do it."

The Governor's hand found purchase on Samara's injured shoulder and squeezed hostilely. The Native hissed as currents of pain racked her still fragile body.

At the sight of his friend's pain-filled features, Glenn dropped the weapon without further discussion and retreated until his back hit the wall.

Martinez took careful steps towards the younger man, bringing out a pair of metal handcuffs. Merle still had his gun pointed at Glenn in case he tried anything funny, but the young man kept his gaze on the hand grasping Samara's shoulder. For now, it had loosen its grip.

Glenn offered no protest as he was cuffed to a sturdy metal pipe.

The Governor moved from the Native, taking a step further with an amicable smile on his lips. "Now that we have that out of the way, Merle, I want you to go make arrangements for a fight tomorrow and inform Rick of his participation in it."

As if slapped, the older Dixon gazed upon his leader as if he had grown mad. He was being sent away?

"I can do that later—"

"That's an order." His tone was brisk and infinitely cold, leaving no room for opposition.

Merle gritted his teeth so harshly that Samara could hear them chip. He fumed as he left the cell and the woman could not understand this turn in events. The Governor was treating his most precious soldier with a cold shoulder, brushing him off as if he was nothing more than an annoying fly. Not that Samara didn't mind the older Dixon's absence, but it made her wonder just what had happened.

The Governor paced the space between the two prison inhabitants. Cool sweat pooled at Samara's forehead as the silence made her stomach plummet.

"I don't want to make this into anythin' big since I don't have the time for it, so I will say what I have to say." Those endless hollow eyes looked from Samara to Glenn with a solemnity that pimpled their skin. "You either tell me where your group is hidin' at, or I start hurtin' her."

Samara's jaw clenched. _So, this is how it's going to be._

The Governor was going straight for the jugular. Too bad for him that was not enough to frighten Samara.

"Give me a fucking break…" Her icy olive eyes found Glenn's anxious ones. "Glenn, even if he leaves me broken, don't say a word. _Everything_ is at stake."

If one word gave hint to their people's location, Samara would die with a heart full of regret and she'd rather leave this world content with the life she had led.

Glenn bit his lip, but nodded determinedly as renewed strength pooled in his dark orbs. He knew.

The Governor sighed, but he was not at all perturbed. Truth be told, he had expected their refusal to bend. Almost welcomed it. "Not the answer I wanted, but I'm not worried. That'll change."

Silent steps took him to where Samara laid motionless in her chair. She hissed at his proximity, but could do nothing as his hands gripped her shoulders from behind. Samara suppressed the shiver of disgust his touch brought. She could feel the dark intent behind those strong fingers and knew they came with the promise of pain.

"I'll ask once again, and this is the last time I'm gonna do it nicely—Where is your group?"

Glenn lips pursed further as his eyes stared apologetically at Samara.

With swift movements, the Governor freed Samara's injured hand and caught it with iron claws. The Native held her breath as the man pushed her arm backwards and twisted it. Choked groans of pain clashed against her tightly clenched lips as continuous waves of agony were sent forth to her brain.

"It was dislocated a few days ago, must hurt like hell now if I do this." He pushed it further back making Samara howl, her yells bouncing across the cold walls. Glenn grimaced at the sight of her unnaturally contorted arm. "If you wanna spare your friend the pain, I suggest you start talkin'!"

There was nothing Glenn could do but shake his head. He could not give up his friends, his family, Maggie…not even at the cost of his life or Samara's. It was a small price to pay for the lives of those he cherished.

The Governor's whole body seemed to stiffen with rage. Those merciless hands moved with a brisk jolt and a loud pop reverberated across the room. Samara's hearing snapped into a thin line as her mind went blank. The pain had been so great that her mouth hung open, her voice a distant dream. She could not articulate even a word as the agony scorched her like the flames of Hell.

Her arm fell uselessly to her side.

The Governor gave Glenn a foreboding look which spoke of just a taste of what was to come

* * *

The door to the clinic opened without a creak and Merle silently made its way through the white halls as if a ghost had come to haunt. His target sat motionlessly on the sterile bed, detached from the happenings around him. There was no trace of Stevens or his little nurse to which Merle was glad. A little bit of privacy never hurt.

The cool night air had managed calm him down somewhat, his anger boiling down to only a light simmer. He had juggled ideas as to who had pissed in the Governor's coffee this morning, so to say, for him to be so brusque with Merle. He did not relish this indifference he was being treated with as if he were just some grunt still playing with his dick in the sand. Merle had been through too much, shed too much blood and said too many 'sir's' to be shooed away on some errand boy task.

The Governor was scheming something that did not include _him,_ that much Merle realized.

His fingers curled into tight fists, his anger once again sizzling.

"Hey there, Officer Friendly."

With a startle, Rick instantly became aware of the narrowed eyed devil and scowled fiercely.

"Merle…"

"I'm here to deliver a message, but don't you worry, ol' Merle hasn't forgotten about you." A sparkle of malice shined deep in his arctic blue eyes. There was no grin or smirk present at this hour, not as Merle still remained shunned and ignorant of his leader's thoughts. "Later, once me and the Governor are done with the chink, the two of us are gonna have a chat. We never got to settle our score and it has to have an end. All good stories need one."

"Where's Glenn?!" His arms strained against his metal bonds as his body lurched forward. The man was on edge that even the slightest provocation sent him into a frenzy.

"He ain't dead yet." And Merle took advantage of that frantic state. Ruffling the sheriff's feathers seemed like an enjoyable distraction from his more dire thoughts.

"What about Samara?" The sheriff glared hatefully, but Merle could smell the stench of fear for his comrades. "Michonne?"

"They ain't dead…y _et_."

Like a pricked balloon, Rick deflated and sank back on the hard mattress. He wouldn't get anywhere by snapping at Merle.

"You done barkin' at me, sheriff? Good." As much fun as it was, Merle had come here with a task at hand even if it were one he detested. "Now, tomorrow's gonna be a fight and you get to be the main star. Ain't that nice?"

Rick took a deep breath, the waters calm in his blue eyes. "Merle, listen to me. Daryl will never forgive you if we die here when you could have stopped it."

A snort. "I doubt that. My baby brother is softer than me, I always knew that, but he ain't that sentimental. We're blood. He'd drop you at a moment's notice if it meant choosin' between me and the lot of you."

"You don't know your brother anymore, Merle. He's changed. We're like family to him."

Something in Merle's mood darkened even further. "I'm the only family he has. That he _needs_."

"You weren't there. Not during the long winter we scavenged like animals for scrapes of food and not when people around us died and he was left to pick up the p—"

Like a viper, Merle snatched Rick's bandaged hand and crushed it right above the injury. The sheriff let out a loud scream and sucked in a hissing breath, tears pooling at his lower lids. The pain must have been unbearable after such a short time since being sewn.

 _Good_.

"Don't you tell me I wasn't there for my brother!" Rage poured out of every pore. Merle could barely think straight as he was flushed with scorching fervor. "I was always there! It ain't my fault we got separated, now is it? So go fuck yourself, sheriff!"

"No! _I_ was there!" Rick hissed between grounded teeth, his voice barely above a whisper. "Hershel was there! Carol was there… _Samara_ was there!"

Pause.

His merciless grip slackened.

"What does the squaw have to do with anythin'?" He asked shrewdly. That nagging doubt since the woman had blurted it out was still there, never fully having disappeared from his mind. Like a festering wound left untreated.

"Daryl cares deeply for Samara and when he hears that she's been hurt, because of _you_ , that family you talked so highly of may not exist anymore."

As if burned, he let go of the sheriff. Rick gasped in relief as his hand shook in terrible ache.

" _Her_?"

How? It just didn't seem possible. Daryl had never been one to get attached to anyone, much less a crotchety bitch with an attitude. Had he lost his mind?

"Trust me, I don't understand it either, but I guess we don't all get to chose who we _love_."

Rick's words hit him like a sledgehammer. Love?

Daryl…love?

It was inconceivable. Samara had been telling the truth. A hard to swallow truth, but one nonetheless. The sheriff couldn't have overheard their conversation in the cell, so his knowledge came from actual facts. Considering his baby brother's lone wolf behavior it wouldn't surprise Merle if his thirst with the Indian was all kept private. The reason for Glenn's lack of knowledge.

But…if it was true…then—

Merle's eyes widened. He had left her to the mercy of the Governor, a man that barely had any, and even less for people that wronged him. By now, the woman could be a mangled corpse, beyond recognition.

Merle winced.

With urgent steps, he marched out of the clinic, forgetting his previous anger directed at the Governor and Rick. He had only one goal in mind and that was to salvage what was left of the woman.

He had to stop the Governor, not for her sake, but for his brother and his own.

* * *

Samara was a bloody mess by the time Merle arrived. Her shoulder had been once again dislocated, dangling in an unnatural position. Multiple bruises littered her face, while one of her eyes was swollen shut. Her breathing at this point was labored and in short takes. The Indian looked like a boxing bag, worn out by use and repeated mistreatment.

Only an hour had Merle been gone and the Governor had already delivered enough damage to make him anxious.

Martinez had a disgruntled look about him which Merle found odd. The man had never shied away from violence, not even when said victim was a woman. Glenn was in a different state altogether—tears of anger and despair ran down his cheeks, unable to do anything for his companion but stare as the Governor delivered his own brand of justice.

"Tell me!" The Governor yelled as he punched Samara across the jaw, sending her into a cosmos of white tinkling stars.

"Stop…" Glenn groaned, the torture cutting him down emotionally. He seemed more mentally exhausted now than he ever did under Merle's rough treatment.

"Only you can stop this if you just tell me!"

The young man looked away, his lips a thin line. He wouldn't balk, not even as agony was etched across his features.

The Governor's face darkened with malevolence. Merle knew that look, had seen it countless times before and knew that what was about to transpire would be grueling.

"Sir—"

The Governor did not even hear him, his focus solely trained on Glenn. "Only you have yourself to blame for what's gonna come."

With a deftness Merle had never witnessed, the Governor unsheathed his hunting knife and cut off Samara's little finger.

A deathly silence pervaded across as if all sound had been drained from the room. Not even a pin could have been heard as everyone held their breaths in mute horror.

Samara stared in shock at the blood flowing in droves out of her stump, her brain unable to grasp what had just transpired. She looked like a fish with how wide her one good eye was. The blood just kept on squirting out her body seemingly without end.

"Oh fuck! Oh no!" Glenn howled in dismay at the severed finger on the ground.

Merle cursed foully inside his head. He had been too late and now the Governor had done the unthinkable. How was he supposed to explain this?

"I'm gonna keep cuttin' bits and pieces of her as long as you keep your mouth shut." The Governor's grim voice echoed across the room like a funeral bell, giving no room for hope.

Something deep snapped within Glenn and hate so bitter poured out of his eyes that if it had been tangible it would have consumed them all within an instant.

"You fucking maniac!" He pulled against the metal cuff, making the pipe groan under the strain. Like a crazed man, he tried to tear away from his bonds with the sole purpose of getting his hands on the Governor and delivering the same kind of brutalities that he had inflicted on the beaten down woman. Nothing else mattered but that man's death which Glenn could already see with his hands around his throat.

Within all this chaos, Samara lay motionless, simply staring at her missing appendage, lost to the world. Blood slid lazily down the chair's handles, staining the dirtied floor with crimson.

"Sir, I think this is taking it too far."

Martinez had been the one to speak, startling Merle out of his mind's ravings. The Hispanic looked disgusted by what had happened, prompting Merle's suspicion.

The Governor sent an irritated glare his way. "Martinez, if you don't have the stomach for this, then maybe you should go do guard duty like the rest of those useless sheep."

"Fuck this, I'm out." The man spat and left as quickly as possible, throwing a remorseful glance at the comatose woman.

What the hell was wrong with everyone today, Merle thought as he stared after the man's back. Martinez was acting too strange. To a person who hadn't known him it would be the most logical response after the blood shedding, but Merle knew Martinez and that wasn't him.

The Governor did not seemed perturbed by his soldier's departure. In fact, he barely gave it any thought as his attention returned to the young Korean.

"Well, what's it gonna be?" His voice was like a knife cutting through the fog of hatred. "How long can you keep on lookin' before it becomes perverse?"

"Fuck you!" Glenn screamed, his eyes wide with uncontrollable rage. Fury was the only thing he could see. A canvas of bloody red. "You're going to pay for this! Fuck! Fuck!"

As he howled and raged, the adrenaline that fueled his hatred reached its peak and not before long came the moment his voice faltered and broke.

"Fuck…"

And the tears soon followed, tracing the old lines and dampening his cheeks anew. Bitter tears of hopelessness and anguish weighted down the strong man, making his whole body quiver. He slid to his knees, his body unable to keep his weight standing. The sobs he let out would break a simpler man's heart, but the two Woodbury residents had heard worse and were not moved.

It was done, Merle thought simply. The Governor broke the boy.

It was for the best. This way, the woman got to keep her other limbs intact and no further harm would be dealt to her. They would know the location of the Atlanta group and Merle could once again see his baby brother in this life. The older Dixon did not know the extent of his brother's relationship to the Indian, but as a peace offering he would give her back to him, even if he had to _somehow_ bargain with the Governor to keep her alive.

Through miserable cries, the Korean tried to find his bearings. He hiccuped and stumbled, but the words slowly rolled off his heavy tongue. "T-There's a p—"

"Glenn."

Her small, faint voice cracked across the room sharper than any whip ever could. Samara was no longer staring blankly at her loss, but was solely fixed on her companion in suffering with an intensity that edged on madness. There was a tumultuous storm brewing in those empty olive orbs that it made Merle suppress a shiver of alarm—those were the eyes of an unmovable mountain. Unbending, unyielding steel that offered no hope for knowledge.

"Don't…say…a word."

Through the torment and horror, Samara found her pillar in the tempest and held on for dear life. The fact that one of her fingers was gone did not seem to hinder her. Pain had washed away from her features leaving her a hollow automaton, simply existing on autopilot.

"Even…if he cuts…my entire hand off. Please. Don't waver." Her voice was like a cool river, smooth and cold to the touch, and as lifeless as the rocks dwelling beneath its surface. "Even if I'm killed right before your eyes, do not give him the satisfaction of breaking your will. Do not let him touch our friends, our family…the people that we _love_. If this monster gets his hands on them, they will suffer a far more uglier fate than what he's doing to me. Hershel will die. Beth will die. Ma—" She stopped her wiggling tongue before it was too late. Reminding the young Korean of his dead lover might not be the best encouragement at this moment. "Everyone you know will be tortured or be used as entertainment until they fall dead from exhaustion. There will be no future, no safe haven for us. Everything that we shed blood and tears for will be reduced to ash along with the dream of living out what time we still have left in peace."

The smile she gave the young man was painful to watch, but it freed Glenn of his despair as he drank in her words like liquid oxygen. The tears stopped rolling and the sweltering heat inside his mind retreated, giving him room to gradually think lucidly again. His strength returned, each word giving him the power to rise to his feet and keep his ground. With a few words and a iron front, the woman undid all of the Governor's hard work within a split moment.

But Merle saw it differently. Samara was simply inducing disturbing images into Glenn's mind, making him rethink giving in. If the boy had a lady love back at their base, the thought of her taking Samara's place, broken and beaten, would give him pause to reconsider. Fear was a better incentive than any inspiring word. Merle could almost applaud the woman's subtle manipulation, if it hadn't frustrated him to almost wanting to punch her.

"No matter what happens to me, I don't blame you…not even for a second. Even if I die, it will be for the greater good." Fire blazed in her eyes as her attention turned to the cause of her suffering, her soul screaming bloody vengeance. "So don't you fucking tell this son of a bitch anything! Let him rot! Let him stew in his failure! We're stronger than him, in every shape and form! Don't give in his terror! In the end, he's just a _man_! Bones and flesh that can be rendered and crushed!"

Merle bit his lip to the point of perforating the skin. _Goddamn squaw…_

—She just signed her death warrant.

The pitch darkness that painted over the Governor's eyes had Merle on pins and needles. It was that black void that scared the life out of him, when all humanity left and in its stead, replaced with the monster the woman spoke so spiritedly about.

The blade glinted lethally in the dim light of the cell, and Merle acted with rapid reflexes. He caught the Governor's wrist before he could swing the blood hungry knife.

"Wait!"

Those dead orbs fixated on him with unwavering intensity and Merle wished to all that was sacred the man couldn't see his apprehension. Even the slightest hint of fear would tear down his resolve.

"What?"

"Let's talk outside." Slowly, the older Dixon let go of the high-strung man and retreated a step. Now was the time to be submissive, let the other think he had all control even as it slipped through his fingers.

As if carved out of stone, the Governor followed with rigid steps, not once looking back.

Only at a safe distance from the cell did Merle think it reasonably enough to talk. It was far enough that the man wouldn't fly into a black rage and kill both prisoners, and far enough that the night air brushed through the hall, cooling his frazzled nerves.

"What is this about, Merle?" Not one for delays, the Governor got to the point.

"This ain't me tryin' to tell you what to do, but you might wanna take it easy." Merle was treading on thin ice. One wrong step and it would crack, sending him stumbling into _deadly_ , frozen waters. The older Dixon hadn't become the Governor's right hand man without knowing a trick or two in restraining him. "If you just mutilate the woman like a stuck pig, you ain't gonna get anythin' out of both of them. This needs to be handled with time and patience. They see you frustrated, then _she_ 'll know you don't stand a chance. The woman will _win_."

If anything angered the Governor into clearheadedness was the implication of losing. The woman had won her round back there as the Governor had snapped at her words, sending him into blind fury. For a man with a remarkable ego that thought himself above others, to be belittled and called only human was something the Governor had not been able to handle with a cool head.

The Governor took in a series of deep breaths and Merle sighed in silent relief as the void vanished, leaving the man coherent once again. Shrewdness returned to his dark gaze and the Governor was back in his own skin.

"Let the woman sit there with Glenn until morning." Merle suggested. At least until morning, the Governor would have a truly cleared head. Perhaps even a new plan on how to learn the location of his brother's whereabouts. Torture in the end was not the answer. They would not break.

He really misjudged them, Merle thought with grudging respect. Especially the squaw. She was made of even sterner material that made Merle curious of its origin. Even the most hardest of men would have balked at the loss of a limb, but she rose above the pain and even gave the Korean strength to keep on going.

The Governor gave the one-armed man a Machiavellian frown. "Terrify the man?"

Merle nodded. "He ain't gonna be the same mind once the sun rises. Seein' your friend waste away just within touchin' distance and not bein' able to do nothin' will weaken his resolve. He'll talk come mornin'."

The Indian wouldn't die from her wound if left untreated. Weak, for sure, but not dead. The blood would soon clot and she would be left dizzy and faint. A finger wasn't enough to kill anyone from blood loss, even if she was beaten.

The Governor snorted, throwing his plan out the window. "Didn't you hear? They have loved ones back at the prison that they would die for. I understand the feelin'. He won't give in and neither will she." But his disgruntlement soon gave way to a devious light. "So, I arranged a back up plan."

Merle blinked inanely.

"What?"

Why hadn't he been told?

"The reason I need a fight so soon is that I'm gonna need the people to be in high spirits, more susceptible to my words. It shouldn't take more than tomorrow evenin' for Martinez to return, I hope."

"Where is he goin'?"

The sharpness in which the Governor peered at him had Merle's heckles rise in ire. He did not like being looked down on, no matter who they were.

"All will be revealed in good time."

Merle watched with a blank gaze as the man walked passed him and out of the hallway.

"Keep watch in case the woman does die." Was his final order before disappearing into the night, leaving Merle in the taciturn silence of the corridor.

A stab of anxiety bubbled sharply in his stomach. He had been left out of the Governor's plan, but to what end? The man had been treating him with a cold distance, not once giving any indication of the root in this change in mood. Something had happened to change the Governor's perception to him and not in a good way. Merle was not blind to it, but he just could not understand what. The Indian had not said anything about their past meeting, otherwise she would have rubbed it in his face with savage glee. It must be something else, but what?

A cool breeze wailed mournfully down the shadowy hallway, pin-pricking his skin.

The world was shifting. What once gave Merle trust and a sense of belonging now felt hostile and hazardous. For one that had lived on the edge of society, dealing with the wicked and corrupt, he had grown a sort of sixth sense for when it was time to fight or flight. Merle could feel it deep in his bones that a choice was soon to be made.

There was a tempest brewing and if Merle was not quick enough he would find himself deep within it without a life vest.

* * *

Samara coughed severely, her throat coarse as sandpaper. Even a task as simple as swallowing hurt.

Everything felt so out of place. Samara felt as if she were swimming through a thick fog, unable to reach its end. There was a thin ringing in one of her ears as she sat placidly and watched the blood droop down to the floor in thick globs. It had begun coagulating, she mused detached.

The Native could count on one hand the number of situations where she had had her whole body injured to such lengths, and unfortunately this short and excruciating experience counted among them.

How strange it was, losing a limb. Back in the army, she had heard from other soldiers that survived similar losses that it felt like the limb was still queerly attached and yet, there was nothing but empty space. Phantom limb, if she remembered correctly. Despite the separation, Samara still expected the limb on the ground to wiggle, but that was a fool's hope.

Reality was right before her, bloodied and aching with each slight movement. Every inch she made sent her shoulder into a throbbing frenzy of pain and the more she talked, the more her face hurt. In the end, Samara resorted to lying as still as possible and breathing as gently as her lungs allowed her.

"Samara…" Her one good eye traveled to the young Korean, silently crying bitter tears. "I'm so, _so_ sorry."

"Stop, Glenn." She knew what was on his mind, could see it plainly written on his contorted features. "It's not…your fault."

Despite her fearless words before, Samara had been _so_ relieved when the torture stopped. She had been prepared to go through it until her body expired, but someone out there finally took pity on her and let her have respite. The Governor had not returned, only Merle and he had said nothing as he locked the cell, leaving the two occupants to the unnerving sound of their own strenuous breaths and dripping blood.

"It is. Fuck!" His fists curled tightly until his nails sunk into his skin, reminding himself that his pain was a speck compared to Samara's own hurt. "Maybe if—"

"You couldn't…have told him." Everything depended on them not speaking. Samara would not let that man have the pleasure of knowing he broke them…broke _her_. She would rather have all her companions and herself dead than let that man win this gamble they played. "Michonne has said…nothing and neither has…Rick, otherwise he wouldn't…be torturing us. We have…to keep…our ground no matter what."

Hearing her own slurred and wheezing words had Samara reel in desolation. She sounded like a dying animal, which was probably not too far from the truth.

Glenn must have had the same thought as his gaze traveled across her beaten body and wavered under the pressure. It was all too much for him. He was no soldier, no police man. He had been a pizza delivery boy. Even the undead and the many deaths he had seen did not mentally prepare him for the torture of one of his friends. How Samara could still keep her wits about her after everything was a grand mystery to the young man. If he had been in her place, he had no idea if he could have mentally survived the dismemberment. But it was this thought that gave him courage to keep his tongue still. The idea of Maggie in that chair being cut and beaten and disfigured was what propelled him into stubborn silence. Samara had been right. That man could not reach the prison, not in this life nor the next.

"What happened to Oscar?"

Glenn's gentle words lashed Samara out of her dizzying trance. Flashes of the man falling, his back exploding with bits of flesh and blood were like hot coals on her skin.

It was gradual and Glenn had to strain his ears partially along the way, but Samara managed to recall the story through a heavy tongue and bitter memories—how they had been taken and bound, their run through the open fields and Oscar's flight from this hellish life. By the time she was done, her jaw ached and her mind heaved in exhaustion.

"Jesus…" Glenn's face seemed more gaunt than before, with sunken eyes and sickly skin. He was so emotionally exhausted that he felt like he could sleep through a whole season. "We were looking for you…You and Oscar…For the past two weeks, we've been searching like crazy. Then we saw the helicopter crash and we just had to go there. Who knew, maybe the people aboard knew something about you?" Glenn banged the back of his head against the wall, his teeth biting into his already bruised lip. "Fuck! We should have never went after it. All of this wouldn't have happened if we just ignored it. We wouldn't be in this mess and you wouldn't be beaten and left to bleed out like an animal! It's all our fault!"

"Glenn! Enough!" A coughing fit took over and Samara felt like she was choking. It took a while for her breathing to subside and be able to spit out a few words. She hated that kind of talk. "Stop crying…over something you couldn't have…foreseen. I sure as hell didn't…foresee this. You need…to be strong. For Rick, for Michonne…for the others, for…"

Not for the first time Samara had almost blurted out Maggie's name. It was a reflex, she thought. Whenever she thought about one of the two lovebirds, the other's image popped into her mind's eye. They came in pairs like two sides of a coin. You couldn't think about one without the other.

Her father…Gods, Samara didn't even want to know the grief Hershel and Beth had gone through to lose another family member. They had suffered through so much already that it seemed just plain cruel to keep torturing them further as one by one their family dropped like flies around them. If Samara had been in Hershel's stead, she would have died from a broken heart. No parent should have to bury their child.

"Glenn…" Samara swallowed thickly through the grainy walls of her throat, feeling as if she was being fleeced from within. She did not relish the thought of knowing, but morbid curiosity wouldn't have her stay ignorant. She _had_ to know what became of _him_. "Did you…go to the supermarket…where we were captured?"

Glenn nodded, not a change in expression.

At the back of her mind she found it odd that he hadn't even twitched at the remembrance of where his woman died, but Samara was too far gone in misery to listen to shrewd whispers. Perhaps the poor boy was still in shock, even after all these weeks. Some people had a hard time letting go, preferring to hide behind a veil of deafness and blindness. Ignorance was bliss, after all.

"I'm sorry." Samara felt the shadows engulf her small form and that sorrow that had broken her in her cell days ago returned with a vengeance, threatening to drown her once again. "I'm so _sorry_ you had to see her like that." _Undead and shambling or nothing but bones with a few strips of flesh clinging_. "I couldn't do anything to save her…them." She had been unable to help Daryl as he struggled in his noose, veins bulging and breath shortening. And at that time, to her utter shame, Maggie's fate had been furthest from her mind. Olive orbs widened with terror as the memories flashed by, each weighting her down until she submerged beneath the surface. "I just had to watch while he died—"

"Who died?" Glenn's voice cut through her hysteric tirade like an arrow. He watched her with a growing frown of confusion. "What are you talking about?"

 _What?_

"Maggie…and Daryl…" The boy could not be so far gone as to have pushed the girl out of his mind.

It clicked then in his mind and the strange pitying look Glenn gave her had the dormant storm inside Samara lash against his audacity. She did not need his pity. Why would he pity her—

"They're _not_ dead, Samara."

The dam creaked.

She stared with a vacant gaze. Wild, irrational thoughts of trickery and deceit bounced with vigor across her mind even thought she knew Glenn would never be so cruel as to play with her, but her heart wouldn't listen. Samara was too consumed with emotion to hear her rational thought process, despite it screaming at her.

How could they be alive? They were dead. She saw them. Saw Daryl hand and lay motionless. They were dead. Maggie was dead, locked in a room with walkers. Samara had been the only one left alive out of that retched affair because Daryl had traded his life for hers. How could he be alive?!

And yet, Glenn gave no indication that he was jesting. He was as serious as when he had silently vowed to never surrender to the Governor. He was telling the honest truth.

 _What?_

Tears sprang, a misty sheen wetting her eyes.

In the distance, she could hear the dam chip and fracture, water seeping out like fountains.

"They're at the prison, mostly worried sick of where we are."

Glenn's words thundered across her being, feeling as it she were once again punched in the stomach. This news hurt more than any fist could, destroying her carefully erected walls. The bittersweet joy felt so similar to excruciating agony that she worried a heart attack would follow.

"Daryl…is alive?" Her voice quivered, light as a feather and fearful as a newborn kitten.

"Yeah." Losing the pity, Glenn spoke gently with a warm smile. He could clearly see the trauma their supposed death had left on the woman and knew that if he had been in her place, he would have reacted the same. If these words would give hope to Samara then he would gladly share them. The least he could do to alleviate her suffering. "Maggie said she found him on the floor of the supermarket after the rope around his neck broke. She did CPR and brought him back. Daryl's _alive_ and he's been searching relentlessly."

The tension in the room could have been cut with a knife. The air felt so heavy that it threatened to suck the life out of them. Samara stared blankly, not even seeing Glenn as a film settled over her mind. Glenn began to fear that she had slipped into a catatonia when she suddenly burst into uncontrollable tears.

—The damn shattered into a thousand pieces.

Samara cried and cried and cried, tears pouring down her cheeks like mighty rivers.

Glenn watched on in shock as the proud and stern woman he had always known was reduced to a small, bawling girl with a snap of a finger. Samara was human, in the end, but sometimes the young man forgot as she had always paraded around with a cold front and a harsh growl.

Samara felt like it would never end. The tears just kept on pouring and she did not have the will to stop them. She cried in joy, she cried in sorrow, in fear and anger, but most of all she cried in _relief_ —

Daryl was _alive_.

* * *

 _ **Author's Note**_ : So Samara finally learns the truth. Good. All that moping around was making the mood dreary. I don't like writing her depressed, but the story called for it. Sometimes even I forget that her range of feeling extend past grumpiness and sarcasm. I guess I just don't like seeing her weak and vulnerable, but she is human.

Oh boy, the Governor brought out the big guns and cut off a finger. Yikes. Some of you may think that I'm taking it too far with Samara's wounds and you're probably right, but considering this is the TWD universe where every main character seems to shrug off injuries, I think I'm doing alright. But, that doesn't mean Samara isn't reaching her limit. I throw anymore violence her way and she _will_ die.


	43. Great Escape

Outside, the nightly song of the crickets could be heard as well as the occasional owl hooting from its perch in the trees, ever alert for a small mouse scurrying around unaware. Except for the guards' torches nothing shone on the darkened street. Their steps echoed off into the distance as they paced mechanically across the Wall, vigilant for any walkers sneaking out from the woods.

The night was brittle with tension. Merle could feel it in his bones as he sneaked across the street to reach his destination. There was no guard duty to attend and his bed was as welcoming as a pile of stones. The only thing he had in mind was the knowledge that was denied him. The man capable of telling him was most likely in his abode, since his other favorite places were empty of his presence.

Merle didn't have a taste for this. He had been on edge since the Governor left him behind in the cells. Dark clouds were brewing and he had no wish to be in the middle of it when the thunder and lightning began. This problem needed to be fixed soon, but he couldn't as long as he remained ignorant to the root of it.

A harsh knock on the door.

"Martinez!"

Despite the man having neighbors downstairs of the duplex, Merle pounded on the door until the Hispanic finally answered. There was no time for being subtle. He was racing against an invisible clock that kept on ticking down to zero.

"Mer—The hell man?!"

Merle pushed his way inside, not even caring that he was invading the man's personal space. The first thing Merle had noticed was Martinez's garb—he was dressed for an outing, not for sleep. From his location, Merle could spy the kitchen table clustered with all sorts of weapons and supplies. The Hispanic was getting ready for a trip beyond the safety of Woodbury.

 _Tick-tock. Tick-tock._

"What are you up to? What did the Governor tell you to do?" Merle had never been one for subtlety, opting for directness instead.

"Didn't he tell you?" Martinez grumbled, still irritated by this interruption.

"The hell do you think I'm askin' you for then?" Merle barked back, his patience thinner than a harp's string. "To refresh my memory?"

"You never know with how old you are."

A darkness settled over his features, outlining them with frown lines. "Don't smart mouth me, boy. I can still knock your teeth out any time I want."

Martinez sighed. The last thing he needed right now was for a fight to break out. It would just draw unwanted attention.

"Look, I can't tell you anything. Nobody is supposed to know."

That was _exactly_ what Merle didn't want to hear.

Like a cobra, he struck. Martinez didn't even have time to defend himself as he was gripped by the front of his shirt and slammed into the closed door, the impact rattling his teeth. Merle's eyes were ablaze. He looked downright mad as he stared in cold fury at the Hispanic, his nostrils flaring with suppressed violence.

"You got one minute to decide what you're gonna do and if you keep on bein' an asshole, I'm gonna start bruisin'."

"What the hell is your problem, Merle?!" Martinez shouted loud enough to wake the dead. He was beyond furious. "Get off me!"

Even with his youth and use of both hands, Martinez still couldn't hold a candle to Merle's brute strength. Besides, Merle knew that the promise of his other hand was far more intimidating than any fist ever could be. The moment the cool blade touched the man's fragile throat, Martinez ceased to struggle. Beads of sweat pooled on his skin as the sharp edge cut lightly into his skin.

"You know me, Martinez." Merle sneered with that devilish smile that promised hurt to anyone that came across it. "I ain't the type _not_ to follow my threats."

"Alright! Fine!" The Hispanic spat, his tone a tad higher as the blade pushed into his skin. "Just get off me!"

Merle relented and Martinez pushed him away, more out of a sour ego. It was not everyday you were backed into a corner by one of your own comrades. But considering that Merle had always been a bully, it came to no surprise that this was his preferred method of obtaining information.

"Look, Governor _really_ wants to know where those people hide." Martinez said grudgingly, still glaring bitterly at the man who'd roughed him up like they were kids on a playground. "I'm gonna bail them out soon, spin them a story on how I want to leave Woodbury for good and they'll lead me back to their location."

If Merle felt any surprise, he didn't show it. It was a good plan, the problem was—

"And they're just gonna believe you?" His tone said it all—it seemed like a far away chance that Rick or Samara would ever trust Martinez. Especially the squaw.

"Do they have a choice at this point?"

Good point. The Governor was practically forcing them to trust Martinez. He knew the way out and he knew how to do it without getting noticed. A better chance than this they would never get, but if no one was supposed to know then what about the sentries? They would not turn a blind eye to Martinez leading a bunch of prisoners out in the darkness.

"What happens if you get caught?" Something at the back of his mind chuckled that it was a silly question with an obvious answer. One that he knew.

"Governor told me to do _everything_ I can to get them out. Nothing else matters."

Including killing, was what was left unsaid.

The grimness in which Martinez spoke told Merle what he thought of that plan. Killing his own comrades, just to accomplish a task that might not be worth it in the end, was not to his taste. But orders were orders, and he still liked his position in Woodbury along with the ease it brought. Just like everyone else, Martinez was out for his own gain.

"All of them?" Merle doubted that Michonne was one of those people on the list getting freed. That woman was beyond a pardon.

"Only the sheriff and the kid."

"What about the Indian?"

"Governor won't let her go." Martinez licked his dry lips, a strange sheen over his eyes. "That one's not gonna survive for long."

"Losin' a finger doesn't kill you."

"No, but the Governor will. He's gonna use _her_ in the arena."

That surprised the older Dixon. From the Governor's words Rick was the one that was supposed to land in the arena.

"What about the sheriff?"

Martinez shrugged. "He wasn't in the plan the Governor told me."

Like a rain of pebbles, it hit Merle and illuminated the world. It was so obvious now with what he knew. Only a man like the Governor could think so far ahead even with the little information he had.

 _A scapegoat._

What better way to rile the people than a traitor? A spy in their midst who ate their food and shared their supplies only to turn on them and kill a few people on the way out? Martinez perhaps will be the prisoner in this little story, taken by the _vicious_ sheriff and his merry band of _murderers_. The Governor was going to spin a story about Samara and her people wanting to take over their safe haven and Woodbury will rise to the occasion out of sheer terror and desperation of not wanting to lose this peaceful little corner within a monster infested world. By then, the Governor will have an army to take over Grimes' refuge, no matter how big. And Samara…she will be the first _enemy_ slain in the eyes of Woodbury. A show that Rick's group could be defeated.

Fear bred courage and the Governor needed willing kamikaze soldiers to follow his every order, even if it meant death. All for the greater good.

"Look, Governor gave Bruce the order to take the woman someplace else. He's probably in the cell right about now."

This just made everything more complicated.

The sand was finally running out in the hourglass.

* * *

 _Everything around her was the same way she remembered it—the green fields stretched on, the dispersed tall trees, the big house with its white wooden walls and rocking chair on the front porch; the long, winding gravel road worn out by the coming and goings of many cars; the tents scattered near the house, all centered around a fire pit._

 _Samara had been here before. Had stood in the exact same place months ago as she readied to send the last of their dead comrades to the other side. Only this time, she lacked the female companionship of Andrea and Michonne. Perhaps they were in the house?_

 _The presence of the owl in the nearby tree was also something fresh. A great shaggy bird of brown, grey and white feathers, watching her with wide yellowish-orange eyes like the flames of a fire. It stared poignantly, watching her every move with great intensity._

 _The beast unnerved her for some reason. If Samara had had a rock she would have flung it at it, but she doubted the bird would even notice. It was here for a reason, one that sent a chill down her spine._

 _Shane's body was near the mouth of the grave she was digging, a white sheet draped over his still form. A mercy so that his rotten visage and emancipated body could not be seen. Samara did not need to be reminded that death became even uglier after the facts._

 _They should have burned him the moment she found him alone, buried in the snowy field. This was no honor, waiting weeks until the ground became soft enough to dig through. This was just prolonging the inevitable. Once out of sight it would be like he had never turly existed. Fire was a better alternative. A proper funeral. No need to bury the deceased a second time when they clearly did not want to remain dead._

 _Poor Shane. Suffering Shane. Angry Shane. He had been given no chance in this new world. Perhaps if he had split from the group early enough to be rid of its influence, maybe he would have led a second life. A better one than this one offered. But his downfall came in the form of curly, russet hair and round, chocolate eyes that promised warmth and affection._

 _A man in love was doomed to fall._

" _You know, on some nights after I came back here, when the silence became too much to bear, I used to wonder what made you snap that night. What was the final straw that made you take that step towards murder. I know you loved Lori, but you also loved Rick. He was the brother you never had, wasn't he? Did infatuation have that much power to make you forgo everything and go for the jugular?"_

 _She could not understand it. If she had been in his place, could she had killed her competition even if it was a friend? Someone she had known her whole life? Samara wanted to say no, but in these times everything was possible and the madness of this world gave people the power to do the unspeakable._

 _Rustle._

 _Hoot of the owl._

" _You always thought me dangerous." The material above Shane's mouth moved with each word and Samara found herself not even surprised of Shane's talkativeness despite his condition. "Maybe those dark thoughts and desires were always there and I was just waitin' for the right time."_

" _And that boy was your lucky break? I guess I could understand. There would be a reason for Rick's death if you had survived and he didn't. You found the captive and he shot Rick with your gun. You could have fooled them for a little while…but not for long."_

" _You would've seen through it, huh?"_

" _Me, Daryl, maybe Andrea…There was no way for you to come out ahead."_

 _She would have pieced it together considering of what she knew of Shane's unstable mind._

 _Derisive laughter shook the white sheet._

" _Could never fool you, marshal! You have an annoyin' habit of seein' through everythin', however deep or light the secret is. You're kinda annoyin' in that regard."_

 _A whisper of a smile. "The perks of my former job."_

" _I never had that skill."_

" _That's because you used your fists instead of your head. Too quick to anger and confrontational. You had no markings of a leader. You were—"_

" _A mad dog?"_

 _She grinned, recalling her favorite name for him._

" _I may be all that, but at least I was straightforward. You?" He scoffed scathingly. "You lie and manipulate and scheme. I tried trustin' you once, but you bit my hand in return. You sided with Rick who never could agree with anythin' you said, but I, who shared the same vision, was pushed aside like a leper."_

" _I just didn't like you." That was the truth. No matter what they shared, she could never have liked him as a person. Rick had been the only choice. "One smoking bomb is enough and—"_

"— _Two is too many." He chuckled. "Can't all wear the title of the 'badguy', now can we?"_

" _Am I?" She mused thoughtfully. She had always called herself that, but in the end, was she? What he had said was true—she lied and schemed, but it was for the greater good…and her own continuous existence on this empty earth. But there had been lines she had not dared cross. All her deeds had been done not out of spite or cruelty, but what she had thought best. You could not blame a person for wanting to survive._

" _Well…you tell me. You're the one strapped to the chair, not me."_

 _Confused, Samara looked down on herself and curiously noticed that indeed she was strapped to a chair in the middle of the grave. The hole was deeper than she had initially dug it and she had to crane her neck to see the edge. Shane stood at the top, devoid of the pristine slip and looking down on her, shovel in hand. He was as unpleasant to look at as she had remembered him in his last days before he was put to rest._

 _The owl had left its perch atop the tall tree and stood opposite of the undead man, those vacant orbs watching her faithfully._

 _Was this it? Was she being punished for all the immoral things she had done? For the people she had killed and stepped over to see the next day? It seemed fitting. She and all her kind will meet their due one day, it was just a matter of time. Samara did not struggle her tight bonds, but accepted it. She was tired anyways, her bones aching, her muscles shriveling and her flesh felt like it was melting off her body. Perhaps it was her time to find the land beyond._

 _As if hearing her thoughts, Shane shrugged unconcernedly._

" _How should I know. I'm dead, remember? Question is, do you think you should be punished?" The morbid question was followed by a rustle of pant pockets. "I think this is yours."_

 _Something dropped onto her lap with a forlorn thump. It was a severed finger still wet with blood._

" _Thanks, but I don't think I'll be needing that one anymore." She stared indifferently at her separated appendage, not even bothered that she was missing it._

" _You got that right." He picked up the shovel and a pile of dirt. "Where you're goin', there ain't no need for flesh and bone."_

 _The bird suddenly spread its luxurious wings and fluttered them as if signaling the beginning of the end. The earth rained upon her as Shane kept tossing it into the hole. With each moment, the dirt rose covering her ankles at first, then her knees and then her abdomen._

" _Where will I go?" She asked as a spike of fear crawled into her heart. With each inch of growing dirt, her heart soared with worry. She did not like the unknown. It was far too frightening. The loss of control over her impending doom had her finally fight in her bonds, wishing to be free._

I can't die like this.

" _You'll see."_

 _But the ropes around her body would not budge. Instead, the longer she struggled, the more they cut into her skin. She only gave up once breathing became too much of a struggle._

 _The owl hooted long and soothingly. Its sad cries had a calming effect as Samara laid still while the dirt rose to her shoulders. She waited patiently for the earth to swallow her whole, and with time disintegrating her body, leaving only bones and worm food behind._

" _Hey, Shane…" She looked at the man long dead and could not find it in her to pity him. His tale had been a sad one, but one he had brought it on himself. "You realize I would've killed you if you had accomplished your plan back in the forest, right?"_

 _He grinned, his yellow and black decayed teeth exposed._

" _Wouldn't expect anythin' less from another mad dog."_

"Samara!"

 _The sudden out of place shout startled her, but Shane seemed untroubled. He continued pitching dirt as if deaf._

 _Samara's head twisted about searching for the source, but except for the dead man and the owl she could not see anyone. Had that been a figment of her mind? Was she now going mad as well?_

"Samara!"

 _No. It was real. Someone was calling her. Someone familiar…_

" _I know that voice."_

 _It was someone she knew, someone close, but for the life of her she couldn't put a name to the voice._

"Wake up!"

 _The owl hooted once again, its brightly colored eyes regarding her with that bone chilling gawk before taking flight, never to be seen again._

" _I think…" Samara started as her heart began hammering in her chest. Suddenly, her hand began to hurt and her face felt tender and bloated. "I should listen to it."_

 _Her body became a temple of pain, but despite the agony wrecking her entire being she desperately wanted to follow that voice. This place was a cursed one, one that she did not belong to_ yet _._

It's time to go.

 _Shane shrugged nonchalantly. "Do as you like, but between the two of us—it's better here than there."_

* * *

"Samara, wake up!"

With a faint gasp she did, and through her one good eye found Glenn staring at her with alarm.

"…I'm still here…"

Samara responded mechanically. She had to constantly reassure the boy that she wouldn't croak at a moment's notice and try to bite his face off like the one reeking on the floor had tried.

What had she dreamt? It stood in the shadows of her mind and for the life of her she couldn't bring it to light. It had felt so familiar, but she just couldn't put her finger on it. Something about an owl…

"Please, don't do that." Glenn sighed in sweet relief, the fright almost sending him to his knees. "You scare the hell out of me every time you close your eyes."

"I was just…resting my eyes…for a minute." She licked her chapped lips. A drop of water would be so _delightful_ right about now. She hadn't eaten or drank anything since that morning everything went to hell and who knew how many hours or days passed in this windowless prison since then. "Don't worry. A severed finger…doesn't kill you."

"You lost blood."

"Not enough…to die. I just feel…weak."

 _Bullshit._

Samara felt like she was juggling between life and oblivion. A thin line separated them and if she leaned towards the void, she knew she would soon take her last breath. There was just too much damage to her body. Everything that had happened since her capture to this moment had left her body in a constant state of ache. There was only so much abuse a person could take before they shut down entirely. Right about now, her body was running on depleted reserves, on energy that she did not have anymore.

Samara did not have the heart to tell Glenn that she felt like she was slipping. Now that they have finally found each other only to die was too much. She did not think Glenn would take it very well, not in the distressed state he was in. The Korean was strong, but she had seen the limit of it, and her death would topple him entirely.

"He's gonna come back again." Glenn said in the empty cell, almost too afraid to voice it above a whisper, fearing that the mad man would hear them.

"I know."

They both were keenly aware the torture would renew soon and Samara did not known how much longer her body could endure without breaking down. She estimated about two torture sessions.

"What are we gonna do?" He growled in frustration. Samara could see it just by looking at him that he was at the end of his wits. "I thought about giving him the directions to the farm. Buy us some time until we think of a way to get out of here."

Samara gently shook her head. "He'll know…if you're lying. You're not…very good at it…to be honest. And he won't believe…anything…I say anymore."

Oh Gods, even talking was a struggle. Words came out with a wheeze and she had to take short breaks in between to catch her breath. She must look a shadow of her former self. A cheap clone badly replaced with the original.

She wished she could cry, but doing that would solve nothing but make her feel slight relief. Besides, she had cried enough. Bawled like a child in front of Glenn without the faintest trace of shame.

 _Daryl…_

He was alive and back at the prison. Even now, she could not truly believe it. All theses days where she had beaten herself over his demise, starved herself out of misery and seen the world in nothing but black and white and he was alive and well. The cavalcade of emotions she felt threatened to suffocate her. Samara wanted to laugh and cry, to rage and smile like a buffoon. The Gods were cruel indeed. They gave her happiness only without the means of reaching it. Death will find her in this dark cell and Daryl will never know the truth of what happened. But at least some part of her contented itself with the thought that he was miles away from this awful place, never to experience its cruel grip. In case she and the others died in Woodbury in the next few days, Samara knew Daryl would lead the group through thick and thin. He might not like it, but he was the one everyone looked to after Rick.

He would do fine, Samara thought with a wisp of a smirk. He might grumble like an old man, but he was more apt for the task than he realized it.

"What are we gonna do?"

Glenn's weary voice brought her out of her musings. Gone was Daryl's image from her mind as cold reality crashed over her shoulder. She was still in this damp cell, bleeding from her loss with a high-strung Korean cuffed to the wall.

Do? _Silly boy_. There was nothing they could do but wait for the executioner. Unless some unexpected force came crashing through that door to free them, they had no hope of getting out of their bonds. Even if she wheeled herself over to the many objects around the room and found herself something pointy, the only thing she would accomplish was maybe open some new gashes in her skin.

They were well and truly _fucked_.

Samara shook her head. She had no idea. The future seemed bleak and the Native could see no silver lining to it. The only thing she could do right now was rest her weary eyes.

 _Yes_ …A bit of sleep wouldn't hurt.

 _If only I could die in my slee_ —

Bang!

Her one good eye popped open until the whites could be seen. The loud crash had startled her into complete consciousness. Straining her head to the side, she could see a shadow of a man move behind her. Thick, callous fingers gripped the back of her chair and she felt herself being wheeled out of the room.

 _Wha—_

"Hey!" Glenn shouted, his eyes wide in fright. "Where are you taking her?! Merle!"

 _Merle?_

Before the cell door slammed shut, Samara last image was not that of the shouting Korean, but of her lone finger, lying dejectedly on the ground.

 _Goodbye…_

They passed rows of camp lanterns strung up on the walls, their shadows flickering across like dancing ghosts. Samara's heart thundered in her chest. She could not understand what was happening. The last time Merle took her somewhere she ended up with a new pallet of color on her skin and a severed finger. What fresh hell was he sending her to now?

"What…are you…doing?" Samara found her voice, even thought her tongue felt swollen in her mouth.

"You're gettin' your wish, hun. We're leavin'." There was a discernible labor to his breath as if Merle had been jogging this whole time.

 _Thump-thump._

Had someone actually heard her? Was this salvation? Samara was terrified to believe it, thinking it was just an unpleasant jest. This man did not inspire trust and Samara had even less to give him. Just today (or yesterday?) he had tossed her aside in favor of her other companions. She had not been worth the hassle in the end.

"Without…Glenn?"

"Don't worry about him. He's in good hands."

"Fuck…you!" Samara spat, hatred for this man smoldering in the pit of her belly. "I'm not…leaving without—"

The chair came to a stop and Merle spun her around until she came face to face with him. Merle had been in a fight. His clothes were disheveled and his lower lip was busted with a thin stream of blood reaching his unshaved chin. Those blue orbs of his shone with adrenaline and grimness atypical of him.

"Listen up, squaw. Shit's about to go down. Martinez is gonna come any minute now and free Glenn and Rick."

Samara eye fluttered in confusion. Why would Martinez free them? He was the least likely to try anything that might upset the Governor. The man had a track record for desertion, but he would not be stupid enough to try it again and with people he barely knew anything about. Yes, he had acted strange back in the cell. Samara had not been blind to his departure, but that did not mean that it only took a bit of torture to make the man decide treason. Not unless—

 _Of course._

"…A trap."

Merle nodded, light reflecting off those arctic eyes. "Governor ain't stupid. If he can't get y'all speakin', he's gonna find another way to know where you hide. We either leave now and get a head's start, or we can stay here until Martinez completes his mission."

A slitter of doubt crawled into her mind.

"Why are you…helping me now?" Her lone eye glared. "Aren't you…doing the same…as Martinez?"

Merle scoffed. "I ain't that gallant. Besides, you wouldn't have believed me. What you said about you and my brother…Rick said it was real. That means I can't let you die here and trust me, the Governor's got that in mind."

She winced. Samara didn't have to think far to know whatever that monster had in store for her wouldn't be pretty. But trusting Merle was a double edged sword and she might just find herself skewered at the end.

"You left me…to rot. You let that…maniac chop off my…finger!" Her hand with the missing appendage wiggled despite the throb of pain. "You call that…saving me, you asshole?"

"I stopped him, didn't I?" Merle gritted his teeth, tired with this delay. "If I hadn't turned up, you'd be missin' more than just a pinky. So, quit bitchin' and let's leave!"

With a flick of his hunting knife, Merle cut through the rope strapping her to the chair. Samara had to use the chair's handles to rise and even then her knees wobbled. They had numbed out after the prolonged unuse, her skin and muscles tingling as if hundreds of ants bit into her. The few steps she took were slow, her body weighting her down from the burden of her bruises, not to mention that each step had her grit her teeth in agony as long as her useless arm swayed, but Samara persisted. The ropes had been to tight, cutting off her circulation. She would need some time until she would be able to walk properly, but walk she will. The pain and discomfort she felt were minor troubles to reaching freedom.

"Now, I need to set your arm back on."

And that just made the anxiety return. Samara knew it had to be done. She couldn't walk around with only one able hand, but she dreaded the pain that came with it. Hadn't she suffered enough already?

"Here, bite on this." Taking out his leather belt, Merle folded it in two and settled it in between Samara's teeth.

She glared hatefully at the man, but Merle ignored the daggers. She could hate him for all she liked, but she still needed him.

Gripping her arm, Merle twisted it upright and with a jolt, set it straight. Samara screeched into the leather, but it was short and abrupt. Her heart felt like it was about to burst out of her chest and she had to lean on the wall in fear that she would hit the ground. Her whole body shook and her stomach threatened to empty its contents. Samara wanted no more. Everything hurt too much.

A tap on her shoulder brought her back from the white haze. Merle was agitated, his eyes constantly fleeting towards the other end of the hallway.

"Come on." He whispered harshly. "Let's go."

Through the ache, Samara threw herself forward. She could not stop now. This had been just the beginning. The grueling part was just up ahead and she had to endure. For the others, for the people back at the prison, for Daryl…for herself. She would not let herself lose a second time.

Ripping a long piece from her shirt, Samara wrapped it around her four fingered hand. An infection was imminent, she knew, but at least no further filth would get into her bloodied stump.

Her head turned towards her former cell. She could still hear Glenn shouting and it crushed her heart to leave him behind, but it was for the best. If she helped him escape now, Martinez will abandon the mission and Samara might not get a second chance at leaving Woodbury.

She and Merle _had_ to get to the prison first…that is if she didn't croak along the way.

But as Samara pondered Rick and Glenn's safety with the Hispanic, it hit her like a lightning bolt that she was missing a piece of the puzzle.

Her hand caught Merle's shoulder, bringing him to a stop.

"What about…Michonne?"

How could she had been so stupid to forget about her? She had been so concentrated on her own pain that she had forgotten her one friend who she had no news of. What had happened to her?

"Governor won't let her leave, not after what she did."

Her olive greens solidified into stone.

"Then we're…going after her."

"Like fuck we are!"

"Listen…to me, hillbilly, I'll start…screaming bloody murder right here, right now…if you don't comply! I'm _not_ leaving…without Michonne."

It wasn't even a choice. Samara wasn't about to leave that woman behind, even if it meant getting caught.

Merle ran a frustrated hand through his short hair. He looked torn between rendering the Native unconscious and just dragging her out of Woodbury or saving himself the trouble. But considering the former was far too difficult to accomplish, Merle was left without a choice.

"Fuck! Fine!" He barked at her, angered that he had to deal with such a stubborn woman. "But you won't like what you see."

* * *

The Governor rearranged his disheveled clothing. He could feel a fine sheen of sweat covering his body, making his clothes dampen and stick to it.

"I gotta admit, I don't get tired of doin' this. Actually, I just get more and more energy. I feel twenty years old again."

This had been just what he had needed to release the bottled up anger after his session with the marshal and the young Asian. He had been especially harsh tonight with the tied up woman, but it had done the trick. He no longer felt that building pressure in his head to see mangled corpses and his hands ruby red.

The Governor looked at his wrist watch. By now, Bruce must have relocated Samara and Martinez must have freed the young man as well as the sheriff. He gave it an hour or so until Martinez got the group passed the Wall and into the forest.

Michonne was silent as she breathed strenuously on the ground. Despite what the man had done moments ago, her mind was far away. Somewhere where even this monster wouldn't be able to reach her. She bid her time patiently and when the moment came when her bonds loosened even a fraction, death would be a luxury he would pray for most desperately. She had it all planned in her head. Could see it as clear as she saw him now. And that was the only thing keeping her breathing, otherwise she would have bitten off her tongue ages ago and choked on it.

Rick and Glenn…wherever they were this bastard would not tell her, preferring to keep her in the dark, both literally and figuratively. She hoped that at least they were better off than her.

"Nothin' to say?" He looked to her with those bottomless orbs. "You never do, unless you're threatenin' me. Well, then let me tell you somethin' that you won't like. One of my men is gonna free your friends and leave with them."

Not expecting this sudden piece of information, her head whipped like lightning towards him.

The Governor smirked seeing her reaction. That was the liveliest she got these past two days.

"If I can't make you or your friends talk, I had to think of another way to learn the location of your hideout. I ain't a patient man. I want results and by tomorrow I will get them."

His plan will work. Merle's former group was desperate enough at this point to fully believe Martinez and his helping hand. Once the three of them were gone, by tomorrow evening he would have gathered everyone at the arena, expecting a fight. Instead, what they will get will be a theater show in which he and Samara will play the main characters—hero and villain.

He knew his people. Once he got them under his spell, they would cry for her death and he would deliver it. If the marshal thought a finger was all he could remove she was _dead_ wrong.

He was still pondering on making Michonne watch the spectacle when her deep voice, hoarse from unuse, broke his rueful silence.

"Is Merle the one who's going to free them?"

The Governor did not let her see his bewilderment.

"Why?"

The woman licked her cracked lips with the hunger of a starved lion. "I thought since you let him bring that group over in Geneva that he'd spin your mind again, letting him have his way." Her eyes shone like two bright coins. "Even after his first group died."

The Governor remained frozen in his place.

"How do you know about Geneva?" He spoke deceptively softly, but underneath a tempest was wailing. He had a bad feeling about what she was about to say. The same feeling he had got the first time Merle had told him the story…or better said, another version of it.

"Because _I_ was the one that killed your men. Me and another woman. You're not the sort of man to let mistakes of that magnitude go, not without blood. I'm guessing since he's still alive, he didn't really tell you the full story, did he?" Immaculate white teeth flashed from behind bruised and swollen lips, fashioned into a grin. Those hungry eyes practically oozed scorn and hilarity. "You must be really naïve or really _stupid_ to have trusted whatever story he bullshited you with."

The Governor felt his mind go blank.

At no point in time did he ever want to strike her so badly as he did now, but if he did, then she'd know she had triumphed. He would be the fool in their little game.

Nothing of his exterior persona betrayed the churning thoughts eating him alive. Had Merle trully betrayed him? His best soldier, a traitor that had been playing him all along, manipulating his strings like a puppet master. Why had he lied back then? The Governor knew. To save his own skin. If he had come back and told him two women had gotten the upper hand on him and Tim, Crowley and Gargulio, the Governor would have cut off his other hand in punishment. Merle had just been out for his own hide, never mind the rest. Worse, he actually accomplished in taking a few more men out, under the pretense of saving Tim and Crowley, when all the while he must have gone hunting after this woman and the other, who he suspiciously thought was Samara.

That night…when he first saw the marshal at the arena, Merle had acted peculiar. Even if it had been for a moment, the Governor had not attached much meaning to it, chalking it up as one of the hunter's eccentricities, but in the light of this new information perhaps Merle had just been seeing an old ghost.

The Governor felt like such a fool. All this time Merle had been lying to him, and speaking who knows what with the woman. Shumpert had reported that the man had a funny way of striking up conversations with the Native whenever he fancied. At first, the Governor had thought that Merle had found himself something new to ogle, but now…

He had stopped him. Merle had stopped him from inflicting further damage to Samara.

The Governor turned on his heel and left the room, dropping the metal door with a resounding bang. Something felt off. His internal alarms were ringing that something was afoot.

He had to find Merle.

* * *

The twist of the lock did not even inch Glenn out of his brooding.

He had been so absorbed by his dark thoughts that no outside interference could have snapped him out of it. Samara had been taken away to God know's where and he had been left alone and without an explanation. He wanted to cry out in frustration, but he resolved to keep himself strong no matter what. He would not shed tears anymore.

But his worry stemmed from the fact that he did not know why Merle took Samara away. What new torture had they thought of now? Did they drag her away only to parade her in front of Rick or Michonne, hoping that they would break at the sight of her beaten and bloodied body? No…neither Rick nor Michonne would talk. Their will was stronger than Glenn's and they would just swallow their grief and look on with hard eyes as…Samara died—

Glenn sucked in a breath as callous hands touched his wrists. With a startle, he came to the realization that the Hispanic that had been here before with that madman—Martinez, he thought he heard him being called—was _freeing_ him, to his utter surprise.

"What are you doing?" Glenn asked with eyes wide as saucers.

"Come on, man." The metal cuffs fell to the floor with a resolute clink. "We're getting the fuck outta here!"

* * *

Merle pushed her back.

Samara flattened against the cold, concrete wall as Merle peered around the corner like a vigilant thief. Whatever he saw had him scowl foully.

"There's a guard. Shit!"

"There's an easy…remedy for that." Samara drawled, drawing a mock line over her throat with her thumb. If they happened to kill a few on their way out, she would not be the one to oppose it.

Merle directed that scowl her way, but Samara simply shooed him off to do his task. That guard was between them and Michonne. There wasn't even a question of what Merle had to do, no matter if the sentry was friend or an acquaintance.

With a motion for her to stay put, Merle left her side and swaggered over to the guard, his ever faithful smirk in place. Samara didn't hear much of what they talked as with the loss of her companion came the wave of thoughts that she had been suppressing in favor of the present.

If Merle managed to get her and Michonne out safe, what was supposed to happen next? Could she lead this bastard back to the prison? In her current state, Samara wouldn't be able to tackle a kitten much less Merle who was twice her bulk and strength. As for Michonne, who knew in what shape she was. If she was more or less the same as Samara then killing him wasn't an option at this point. Even though it pained her to do it, Samara would have to take Merle back to the prison.

But he would not leave it, alive or otherwise. She would make sure of it.

Samara did not trust him as far as she could throw him. For all she knew, this was all just a ploy for him to recover his lost brother and return to the safety of Woodbury, never mind if Daryl wanted to or not.

Rick and Glenn…Even now her thoughts drifted back to them. She hoped to the gods that she was doing the right thing in leaving them behind for Martinez. If it was a task from the Governor, Samara knew Martinez would do everything in his power to accomplish it.

Samara heard a umph and a second later, a body dropped to the floor. Peering over the corner, she saw Merle hold his gun in his hand, the butt glinting with fresh blood. Either dead or unconscious, it didn't matter to Samara. She just needed to get to Michonne.

As she joined Merle who was fiddling with the lock, she saw the many supplies littered on the floor by the downed man. Bandages, towels, some pills. She crouched low and inspected the medicine. Most were for pain and—

Samara's breath cut short.

 _Morning after pills_.

Wide, horrified eyes turned to the now rising metal door.

 _Oh Gods, no…Please, tell me it's not that._

But as artificial light illuminated the room beyond, Samara almost broke into complete anguish.

Michonne kneeled on the ground, her knees scraped and bloody, with her hands tied in the air. Her wrists were red from the tightness of the metal cords, sparking inflammation and infection. The woman wasn't wearing any pants or undergarments and there was crusted blood on her thighs.

Michonne's head raised and Samara could see the cracked lips and bruised face, but underneath it all was a black rage that threatened to swallow anyone who dared approach. As her focus settled on the Native, a spark of recognition seemed to lighten up those lifeless eyes, before fading away into the void.

"Samara?"

Even with her many bruises, Samara managed to run up to her.

"That…bastard!" Samara hissed as she grappled with the cord. Fury made her fingers quake and her mind go blank. She forgot even now to untie a knot. "That sick…fucking…bastard!"

In her haste, she struggled against the metal bonds and managed to hit her stub. With stars flying before her eyes, she had to hold onto the cord not to fall. Despite the bells ringing in her ears and the need to screech at the pain, Samara managed to bark at Merle to help untangle Michonne. They worked tirelessly to free her, and once unrestricted Michonne fell to the floor, no strength left in her arms. After two days of having her hands restrained in such a fashion they had grown numb.

With difficulty, Michonne managed to lift her face from the hard floor.

Samara dropped to her knees next to the woman. She looked so much like a broken doll that Samara's eyes stung with tears of anger. But those coffee eyes were harsh and cold, glinting like blades in the darkness. Bad thoughts circled in the woman's head, visible on the hard lines of her face.

"What are you doing here?" Michonne asked in a low, guttural voice. Her eyes skirted over Samara's bruised face and bandaged hand with a heavy frown.

"Long…story."

Michonne did not question her. They did not have the luxury to stay and chat, so she simply accepted her appearance here. Her gaze then found Merle and venom flushed in her coffee orbs.

"What is he doing here?" She hissed like a snake.

"He's…going to help…us…get out of Woodbury."

Putting her hand around the woman, she tried to help her to her feet only to be pushed away rather violently. _Stupid Samara._ Didn't she know anything? Victims of such crimes shrunk away from body contact as if they could catch the plague. And considering how proud Michonne was, a helping hand was a sign of weakness and the woman had probably had enough of it, as it were.

With labored breath and shaking limbs, Michonne gathered her pants and boots and clothed herself. Samara tried not to look as pain mirrored across Michonne's features as soon as the rough material of her panties and jeans touched her sore nether regions.

Samara knew the Governor was a murderous bastard, but he had taken it too far. This was _monstrous_. She had thought that he was above such degrading actions, but it seemed she had been horribly wrong. There seemed to be no end to the man's evil nature. He could not live. If they ever got to the prison alive, Samara had no thoughts of peace or laying the past to rest. She would take the time to recuperate and once healthy, she would pick up her weapons. Even if she had to brave the belly of the beast on her own, nothing would stop her. Not Rick, not Daryl, nobody. This town, it's people…Their days were numbered. She'll raze it all to the ground, even if she had to die along, but not before she made sure the Governor saw his _kingdom_ crumble to dust.

—She would save him for last.

Michonne rose and had to steady herself as her feet shook underneath her weight. Moving towards the exit, gingerly stepping. She took note of the man on the floor and her features contorted into a grimace. She had seen him before. With deft fingers, she unsheathed the knife at the man's belt and with a crunch, drove the tip of the blade into his skull.

Merle said nothing, but Samara saw the way his lips pursed.

Taking the pills meant for preventing unwanted pregnancies and the ones for pain, Michonne swallowed them dryly before retrieving the knife. She offered a painkiller to Samara to which she gladly took. A little bit of numbness never hurt.

"Are you two done?" Merle hissed at both of them. "We're on a timer, goddammit!"

Both nodded and followed his lead.

Michonne wouldn't voice it, but walking hurt her. Her lips and brow twitched with each step, a grimace sometimes making itself visible, and Samara could not even begin to imagine the pain she was in. What could she do to alleviate her friend's suffering? Words would not reach the jaded woman, nor actions. At this point, leaving her be would be the best option. Besides, they were not out of the fire yet. They still had a long night ahead of them.

"Do you trust him?" Michonne whispered so lowly that even Samara had to strain her ears.

"No, but I don't…really have a…a choice."

Unwillingly, Samara caught Michonne's unspoken question as her coffee gaze settled on the Native's left hand, covered in a blood stained cloth.

"The Governor…cut off my little…finger. He thought…that would make…Glenn talk."

Michonne's eyes narrowed into slits and Samara could feel the anger waving off her like a hot furnace. Her hands coiled into tight fists and Samara was sure that the woman required all her self-control not to snap at a nearby enemy, namely Merle.

Samara could have laughed if she had the energy for it. Her injury was a pale shadow in comparison to Michonne's. Samara could learn to live with only nine fingers, but Michonne would never be rid of the label 'rape victim'. Even if months and years passed, she would still remember that dark cell as if she had been there only yesterday, each smell and sound burnt into her mind. The pain and humiliation were now deeply ingrained into her soul and it would take tremendous willpower to move past the event, and even then, the shadow of it would still loom over her.

Samara had no doubt Michonne would. She was a strong woman who had been through too many dark situations not to rise above. No matter how long it took, Samara would be there for her when the silence became too much to bear.

"Where are the others?" Michonne asked, her eyes never leaving Merle as she held tightly onto the knife.

With slow and labored breaths, Samara retold the story of the Governor's plot to find the prison. By the time she finished, she felt drained of strength and opted to keep her mouth shut and only answer in curt, short words. It would not do for her to fall dead because she talked too damned much.

Michonne grew somber with each new information and by the end of it, she looked similar to a wraith. Her teeth gritted as the metal of the knife almost molded into her skin from the force she was exerting over it.

Leaving the factory, they passed the arena and mindful of their steps, walked through the alleyways. Merle was in the front while Samara took the center and Michonne the rear. Silence was all around them, making them extra aware of any sudden movement or sound. Any mistake on their part could mean death. Their only relief was the moonless night sky as no light, natural or otherwise, illuminated the darkened streets. They could move almost freely as the guards on the Wall wouldn't be able to see them from such a distance, but Merle wouldn't risk it. He would wait until the sentries had all their back turned before one by one they crossed the street. The way out of Woodbury was on the other side of town and for that they had to traverse the main street. The torches on the wall provided them with extra cover as they had been placed at the back, facing the town and not the forest, making the sentries blind to their silent sneak.

Once on the other side, Merle led them through a maze of alleys and backyards until they reached the edge where the fence could be seen. It was shoddy made—from wood to metal to whatever else could be found and thrust up to keep the chain fence from falling.

"Alright, from here it's a straight way." Merle whispered as he wiped the excess sweat from his forehead. All this running and sneaking around had left him weary as well. He had as much to lose as the women if they got caught. "See that wooden door? There's gap in the fence there. Reason why I covered it. I was gonna repair the fence soon. Good thing I didn't."

Samara saw the absurd hilarity in it. A door for a door. In the end, a bloody _door_ was their gateway to freedom.

"Come on, you two. Hurry!"

A cold voice stopped Samara and Merle in their tracks.

"I'm not leaving yet."

Samara was like whiplash, her neck throbbing with the swift turn. She did not believe her ears. She had hoped it was a trick of her exhausted mind, but Michonne was unyielding in her choice. She would not budge another inch towards liberty.

"What?!" Merle all but spat, before regaining control over the volume of his voice. "You lost your goddamn mind?!"

"I'm going to visit the Governor." The knife glinted with dark promise. "I'll catch up with you later."

Samara knew what the woman wanted to do. Revenge was a dish best served cold, but for those that seek revenge…they should be ready to dig two graves. Samara had no wish to see her friend die today.

The Native approached the sword-wielder and almost grabbed her shoulders if it wasn't for the growl the woman let out. Taking a step back, Samara planted her feet in the ground. She would not let this woman go to her death, no matter how much she wanted to. Michonne was high on blood lust and pain. No wonder she was not thinking straight. The most logical thing to do was escape and kill another day. Staying was suicidal.

"Michonne, I know what he did to you—"

The smoldering glower left Samara startled. She and Michonne may have had their arguments before, but Michonne had never looked at her like _that_. The Native could not even describe it as it flayed her flesh and iced her blood.

"No, you don't." She hissed as if though Samara were her enemy. "You have no goddamn idea!"

Michonne closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Two. Three. She remained like that until what was left of her control returned and left her as cool as an undisturbed lake.

"I _can't_ leave without doing this, Samara."

Samara understood. Despite the irrational aspect, she understood Michonne's thirst for vengeance. No matter what obstacles you had to climb, no matter who you had to trample on the way, the goal must be reached. Samara had done the same with Micah and would still do it all over again, even if she had known Daryl was still alive.

But how could Samara let her go when she knew the chances of her getting out alive, even if she did kill the Governor, were slim to none? She could not live with herself after. Andrea would never forgive her if she could have stopped Michonne from getting herself killed.

Her heart felt torn. She wanted to weep for her friend but nothing came out of her dry eyes. She wished all of this had never happened. Samara wished she and Glenn and Rick had never met the Governor, had never come here. Samara would have left relatively healthy with Merle and the Governor would remain ignorant to the possibility of another group, able and well supplied, within the vicinity. He would have raged at the loss of his captive, but he would have never been able to find her. Why did fate have to bring the four of them together in such unpleasant conditions?

But in the end, Samara nodded. It clawed at her being, but she let her friend go. Michonne was a stubborn mule and would have fought Samara tooth and nail is she had opposed her. Samara knew because she would have done the same, but that did not stop her heart from bleeding bitter tears. It was out of her hands now. The only thing Samara could do now was pray for Michonne's safe return.

With slow movement so not to spook her, Samara gently grabbed Michonne's forearm, above the crusted blood and pink flesh. The other woman almost buckled under the warm touch, but kept herself as hard as a brick wall. She knew Samara held no ill intentions towards her, but the feel of another human's skin, familiar or otherwise, drove her to the edge of the abyss.

Samara gave her arm a gentle squeeze. Even if she knew they did not existed, Samara sent a prayer to her gods to keep Michonne alive and strong.

 _Don't let her die. Please…Do I have to beg?_

Is she knew someone was listening, she would have gotten to her knees and begged like a dog. But the night crickets and the light draft that followed were her only answer. It did not give her much confidence.

A twitch.

Michonne's hand moved and her fingers clasped Samara's forearm. Their tight, desperate grip on each other spoke of a hundred words, each fraught with emotion.

Their gaze held strongly and what they could not express in words, were seen through the film across their eyes. Anger, joy, sorrow, grief, despair, pain, happiness—all crushed into a raging storm inside both of them. In such a short amount of time, they had been through so much to age them to crones. Their scars were furious red and still bleeding and yet they put one foot in front of the other and marched on into the black abyss, facing the demons and monsters lurking in the dark.

With hushed goodbyes, they parted. Each headed for their own path.

Letting go of the woman, Samara felt some of her strength remain with the sword-wielder. She would need all the help she could get.

"You both are out of your fuckin' minds." Merle spat as he glared at the women, tired with their many delays. "Waste of goddamn time…" To think he had freed her from her cell only for her to go back out there and get herself killed or worse.

Michonne's gaze observed Merle, and she did not approve of what she saw. But for now, she would tolerate the oaf, for Samara's sake.

"Go to the helicopter crash. He knows the way. I'll join you as soon as I can."

Samara nodded.

By then that sheen of a thousand daggers returned to Michonne's eyes. She was all business and would not suffer jests. There was a debt that needed collecting.

"Where does _he_ live?"

* * *

Martinez walked briskly across the darkened hallways. Sweat dribbled down his skin as his heart drummed against his chest. He dreaded the moment he would walk into someone he knew. The Governor had given him the green light to kill if need be, but Martinez wished to avoid that altogether. He was a lot of things, did many questionable deeds, but downright killing a comrade—a friend—did not fly by well with him. And for what? These strangers following him close by?

The sheriff and the young Asian were following his lead for now, but who was to say that that will last. If Martinez had been in their place, he would have kept a close eye on this 'savior', never once letting him out of sight. In this world, nothing was accomplished without wanting something in return. An equivalent exchange. The sheriff, at least, must have had that thought cross his mind. He seemed the type to take trust with a grain of salt.

His mind moved from the two men and onto the other two forming the tail. The biggest surprise of the night had been Stevens and Alice's accompaniment. In retrospect, he shouldn't. They had never held any love for the Governor, he was _intimately_ aware of that. Martinez himself could not say he liked the man, but he was smart enough to know where his biggest chances of survival laid with. He had grown to respect and fear the man, and now knew better than to betray him. It seemed the medical duo had not grown out of their rebellious phase and accepted the reality of their situation.

Martinez hoped that once he reached their hideout, he would be able to leave without obstruction. He was running blind with no notion of how large their group was, or how heavily armed they were. There was also the risk that once he arrived there, these people would put a bullet through his skull and be done with him. He knew all these disadvantages and yet he had still accepted the Governor's proposal. Out of all his men, he was most apt to succeed. Shumper was too closed off and cold to inspire any trust, the others did not posses the level of deceit needed and Merle—

Martinez frowned worriedly. Why had Merle taken the Native away?

After he had uncuffed the Asian, he had been met with a fist to his face and a barrage of half questions, half accusations of what Merle had done to his female friend. The mention of Merle and not Bruce had left the Hispanic speechless for a moment. His mind had inadvertently went to the moment just before he had started his mission to where Merle had confronted him in his own apartment.

He should have _never_ revealed the Governor's plan to him. That had been his mistake. Whatever Merle had concocted in his wily mind was most likely not good. If he by any chance ruined this plan with his unpredictable actions, the Governor would skin both their hides. _Literally_.

For now, Martinez tried to put Merle and the Native out of his thoughts as the metal door soon would come within sight. He had the task of freeing the black woman and they were near the Room's location. His mission had not included the woman. The Governor had implicitly refused to let her go, but circumstances forced him to go against his wishes. If it hadn't been for Stevens, he would have spun a story about how the woman's location remained unknown. He had repeated it enough times for it to flow fluidly, but that damned doctor had to ruin everything. He knew where the Room was located and gave Martinez a fleeting suspicious look. Of course, Martinez knew where the Room was, but that didn't mean the others had to know about his knowledge.

But as soon as he saw the body, all thoughts of suspicions and panic flew out the window.

 _Wha—_

Blood pooled around the head, with towels and pills and other supplies scattered around him.

Despite Martinez's instinct to run to his comrade's aid, he approached cautiously. He could not break his traitor mask, lest he lose the little trust he earned from these people.

"Oh God…" Alice gasped as she neared. Stevens offered a reassuring hand on her shoulder, but her eyes were firmly glued to the still body. "Is that Charlie?"

Indeed, it was Charlie. Only a tad more dead. There was a knife wound in his head. Whoever had been here had stopped him from reanimating, but not before roughing him up. Martinez peered into the now empty Room and cursed silently. The black woman was gone as well, to his utter dismay.

Two pairs of footsteps ran past him into the open room.

Had it been Merle, Martinez speculated with stress clawing at his mind. Had he lost what little was left of his drug eaten mind, or had he begun once again to snort those poisonous powders? Martinez would not believe that now even Merle had gone traitor. He was the least of them to ever go against the Governor. There was no reason for him to…except—

Martinez's train of thought was cut short as Rick left the Room, his glare cutting as he stared the Hispanic down.

"Where's Michonne?"

Martinez only wished he knew. He was just as lost as the former sheriff.

This had not been part of the plan.

* * *

Samara crashed against the wide trunk of a tree to steady herself.

Reaching the forest line had been the hardest part. The sound they had produced moving the wooden door and other junk thrown against the fence had caused a stirring, attracting a Wall guard's attention. A long distance flashlight illuminated their way and they had to flatten themselves in the tall grass and lie as still as possible. The only thing that saved them from the guard leaving the Wall to inspect the area had been a walker that had followed the sound and rattled the fence, its keen nose picking them off even in the verdant grass.

A well shot arrow had put an end to the walker's liveliness and Samara feared and wordlessly praised the one that had such good aim in the dark.

They had had to wait another twenty minutes before Merle deemed it safe to leave through the hole in the wall. Samara had been the one to make the first dash towards the forest line. Merle saw it as a gentlemanly gesture, but Samara saw it for what it really was—if the guards spotted her crossing the edge of Woodbury, then Merle would silently make himself scarce.

Her breath came out in shallow and short takes from her quick sprint, leaving her chest heavy. Leaning against the harsh surface, Samara tried to tame the pain her shoulder wrecked throughout her body, never mind the fact that her hand with the severed finger felt swollen and the tenderness extended past her stump.

Merle joined her side soon after, only slightly out of breath.

"Fuck me, that was scary." He whooped lowly, a small smirk on his lips. "Even my asshole got clenched shut."

Samara grimaced. She did not need to know that.

Blue eyes scanned the darkness around them. The Wall was as they had left it, undisturbed with sentries walking it as bored and vigilant as ever.

"So far so good. No alarms ringing', no people runnin' around in panic. We're good to go."

Samara looked over the looming beast called Woodbury. Two weeks she had lived here among these people that thought of themselves as upright, but were just savages underneath their _good civilian_ skin. Days of in living in constant dread and anxiety. Bruises blooming on her skin like flowers come spring. Pain caging her in a world of ache. The Governor making her afraid every time he came within touching distance.

 _I_ hate _you all._

From the one leading the town to the lowliest person inside those walls. Man, woman, child…it didn't matter. They were all fiends in her eyes. If given the chance, she would light them all on fire and gleefully watch them scream and burn.

 _Unforgivable_. What they had done to her was inexcusable.

Her teeth sunk into her lower lip and drew blood. Anger so hot coursed through her veins that it left her lightheaded and frustrated with not having a source to vent her fury on. Despite finally tasting freedom, she felt like a coward running away. Sneaking off like a thief in the night which she was doing.

Samara spat, cursing them to hell and back. She hoped to never see this vile place again, but if she did…then she'll turn it to ash. That she promised.

Dreading leaving her supportive tree, Samara followed the older Dixon deeper into the bowls of the forest. The further they went, the more harder it became to see. Merle would not use a flashlight as they were not out of Woodbury's sight and they both feared having the light spotted. Every wavering shadow, every snap of a branch had Samara on pins and needles. She feared walkers jumping them from behind a tree, more now that she was injured. The scent of blood attracted the undead likes bees to honey.

She could never accustom herself to walking in the dark. Had done it at least a half dozen times, but still it gave her the shivers. Forests were always alive, either with animals or the dead or just some tree shifting its massive weight at the faintest gust of wind. All those things echoing in the darkness made everything ten times worse as it scared the shit out of Samara and bred the most paranoid of thoughts.

"I need a weapon." She called out to the man ahead.

She could not walk in this wild forest without at least some measure of defense. Merle had given her nothing ever since he dragged her out of that cell and if she did not raise her voice, he would offer her none still.

Merle scoffed, his answer clear.

"I smell like blood." She persisted, licking the bead of sweat that rolled by the corner of her mouth. "Walkers will run up to me like flies on shit. I _need_ protection."

"I'm all the protection you need, sweet cheeks. Just stay close to ol' Merle and he'll keep you safe."

 _Fucking asshole._

She should have known better than to ask him. He did not trust her not to gut him with a blade, and he was right. She was feeling pretty violent right about now. A knife might _accidentally_ slip into his back.

They walked and walked for what seemed like hours. Few walkers they had encountered and every time Samara kept to Merle's back. Better they get him first while she escaped. Alas, the walkers all fell to Merle's pointy prosthetic limb and she was yet stuck with him. What she wouldn't give for a walking corpse to bite him…at least then she would have weapons.

Merle would hiss at her every now and then to move faster, but there was nothing to be done. Samara was walking on reserves of energy and they too were reaching their end. At times, her vision would blur and she would get a lightheadedness that alarmed her that she was going to pass out, but a ten minute break always managed to fix her up.

Not for long, though.

Samara had not eaten or drank anything and Merle hadn't brought any provisions with him, snapping at her that he had been left with no time to gather anything. It was either he reach her first or Bruce, whoever that was. So now, Samara walked with slow dragging steps, a dizzy mind, ache all over her body, a painfully empty stomach and a parched throat.

How did she get so _lucky_?

The moment Samara's knees gave way, Merle had called it a stop. He let her rest while he illuminated the foliage for anything edible. While he was away, Samara checked her bandage. The blood had clotted, but even the slightest brush of material against her wound made her suck in a breath. It hurt as if tiny little ants ate away at her disfigurement. To her utter horror, she noticed tiny blots of whitish-yellow goo spread around and knew her fears had come true. An infection had set in. Getting to the prison now became more urgent than ever. If she lost her entire hand because of this…She did not even want to think about it. A finger she could deal with, but a hand?

When Merle returned he brought a bountiful of berries, walnuts and to Samara's familiar disgust, crickets and grasshoppers. She hadn't eaten those in quite some time, but she still remembered how they slowly they slid down her throat. Despite her revulsion, Samara ate them all like a starved beast. For a moment, those dead insects did not seem so disgusting anymore, but they had a faint chicken flavor to them. The nuts also went well with them, taste wise.

 _I must be losing my mind._

"Water." She demanded with a mouthful of berries, her lips red with lush juice.

"Do you hear a stream nearby?" Merle asked scornfully as he snacked on a few nuts.

Well, it didn't matter. Food was enough for now.

As Samara continued to devour her meager food, she could feel Merle's piercing eyes on her, watching her like a hawk.

"You know…" He started lazily, leaning against a tree. "Now that I think about it, you're right up Daryl's alley. At first, I was disappointed with my brother's choice, but then I realized that you're just what he'd go for."

Samara paused in her meal as she eyed him guardedly.

"I'm not…talking about this right now,…and _definitely_ not with you."

"Strong, opinionated, stubborn, rude as hell." He continued as if he hadn't heard her at all. "My baby bro's got a thing for bitches. Somethin' only I realized a long time ago. Told him that once, but he didn't believe me. Said I was high, heh. I was actually _very_ sober that day. Yep, Daryl is kind of a masochist. Don't know where he got it from. Me, on the other hand, I _hate_ cunt's like you." He sneered with a vengeance. "Your only reason in life is to make a man's life harder."

Samara rolled her eyes, annoyed with his words. She did not want to dwell on the fact that Merle hinted at his brother's preference for a certain type of female. "Riiiight, because you're…the picture perfect of what a man should be like. You should…take a look in the mirror, _sweetheart_ , because…it's not all what you think it's up to be."

Merle smirked, not the least bit annoyed at her jab.

"I'd still fuck you, though."

"Please, stop." Samara grimaced.

"You've got the body and I bet you got the experience to go along with it. Probably like ridin' a bronco." He chuckled lewdly, staring her up and down. "Gonna have to ask Daryl that."

"Contrary to the fact…that you two are blood related,…you brother is _nothing_ like you." _Thank the gods for that_. "Unlike you, he has…a sense of privacy and respect."

"What do you know about my brother really?" Merle challenged her as he picked the tiny bits of nuts from between his teeth. "Glenn don't know shit about you two, but the sheriff did. Makes me think that y'all ain't exactly strollin' around, holdin' hands like Fred and Ginger. I know my brother. He ain't never had a relationship that lasted longer than a night. He ain't the type to have a girlfriend and you don't exactly seem starry-eyed." A wicked smile spread over his lips, his brows wiggling perversely. "Is it all just a quick 'pump and dump'?"

 _Damn this man to hell._

"That's…none of your business."

"'Course it is. I wanna know who I'm savin'—the booty call or his old lady?"

Despite not wanting to give him even a hint of her thoughts, Samara's lips reluctantly contorted into a snarl. She hated this man, with his foul tongue and lecherous claims.

Merle smiled triumphantly, as if he had been the one to eat the canary.

"I knew it."

She did not like his accusation, even thought that was what Daryl had represented. A stress reliever, a quickie in the dark, an itch to scratch…an escape from reality. At this point, she did not believe he remained that little in her eye, not with the way she reacted to his death. How strange certain situations can force what is hidden underneath to come to light. But this was neither the time nor the place to ponder her feelings towards the younger Dixon, even less with the presence of his asshole brother here. She could die at any moment, her love life or lack thereof seemed minute in comparison.

"Whatever you think it is…doesn't concern me. Getting me to the group…in one piece should be your only worry." She glared spitefully. "How about you start…concentrating on that instead of my sex life,…you jackass."

Merle kept on smirking that infuriating smile, knowing he won this round.

Samara rose to her feet, and wobbled only slightly. The dizziness was not so prominent and she knew she could go on a little further without pause.

"That helicopter…" She asked as she once again trailed after the Georgia hunter. "How far…away is it? I counted about…five klicks."

"Six, actually. At the slow pace we're goin, we got about an hour and a half, maybe two. So, try to walk faster. This ain't a goddamn stroll in the forest."

That sent her good eye twitching in irritation. The nerve of this man…

"I would…if wasn't so fucking injured!" She snapped, her mind too exhausted to keep her thoughts at bay. Even her voice sounded raspier than ever, barely clear. "Losing a finger…without the wound being stitched up…and walking around with a dislocated shoulder, not to mention…the many bruises I have, can slow down…even the fastest man! So excuse me…for being such a...fucking burden!"

"Yeah, yeah…" Merle waved her off, exasperated by her wheezed shouting. "You women always need a goddamn excuse."

If she hadn't been so injured, she would have strangled the bastard.

* * *

Keys jingled and soon enough, the door to the apartment opened. Quick footsteps rushed in as the Governor searched for his weapons. His mind was a maelstrom, deaf to all around him but the chaos inside as even Penny's erratic behavior was pushed to the side. Merle was gone. His apartment had been empty of his presence and Shumpert had found Bruce passed out with a nasty contusion.

Damn the man and damn himself, the Governor thought. He should have never let Merle out of his sight ever since his suspicion came to light in the wake of so many others. What should he believe of this? That Merle is indeed a traitor? A part of him doubted it—the side of him that knew Merle after months of having him by his side—knowing the man always had a hidden agenda to all his actions. People always thought of Merle as a simple man at first glance. A brute, a jarhead, all brawn and no brain…but they could not be further from the truth. Underneath that rough image laid a cunning mind that if one was not careful enough, they would be trampled to bones and dust.

—Was the Governor the one being trampled now? Had he been the fool all along and Merle, the predator lying dormant, waiting for the right moment to strike?

The Governor cursed out loud, making the chains rattle as Penny reached out for him.

"Shh, sweety. Daddy will return later, alright? I just have some things to do, and then I'm all to yourself. I'll make it up to you with some fresh meat." He smiled warmly to the snarling cadaver, paying no heed to its snapping teeth and hungry groans. "You'd like that wouldn't you, sweetpea?"

Once he'd found Merle and dealt with him, he would spend some time with Penny. He'd been neglecting her these past few days in favor of dealing with the chaos rising around him and it wasn't doing her any good. She was getting fitful and moody, missing his fatherly love.

As he focused on his search, he missed the minute way Penny changed her focus from him to the shadows engulfing the apartment. The darkness stirred as a body materialized with dark features and even darker eyes. Michonne's stony gaze peered down at the crouched man with vehemence worthy of a starved wolf. A naked blade gleamed dangerously, it's white handle an old friend in her grip.

He never suspected anything as the butt of the katana crashed over the back of his head, rendering him unconscious.

"Wake up!"

A slap to his face startled the man out of oblivion. The Governor noticed through a haze that he had been stripped of all clothing and was now in the same position the woman opposite him had been just a few hours ago, arms hanging from tight ropes and him kneeling on the floor. There was a thick line of duct tape stretched over his lips, securing his mouth shut. He was left without a voice, without a way to shout out his indignities.

"Finally, you're awake…" Michonne stared at him with ice cold eyes. "You passed out a second time when I nailed your prick to the floorboard. Do you remember that? I wouldn't move if I were you."

Yes, he did remember that. _Painfully_ so. The woman had been adamant he be wide awake the moment it happened. He's never believed he could experience so much emotional and physical pain within a tiny moment. The sight of the sharp nail driving into his manhood had been all his sane mind could take and shut down to protect itself. The woman had been vicious in her actions, no room for mercy and he reasoned he did not garner any, not after what he had done to her.

" _I think about all the things I'm going to do to you and it makes me cry. It_ scares _me."_

Her words echoed through his sore head, the throbbing from the hit leaving him with a terrible migraine. The Governor knew this was her hour of vengeance and she would not go light on him. He could not even lower his eyes in fear of what he might see and it was eating away at his soul. This bitch had nailed his _dick_ to the floor! Nobody could understand what sort of mental anguish he was going through right now. He felt like he was moments away from a heart attack and dying of grief. She had taken away his pride and ego and trampled on it like a herd of bovine, leaving nothing but dust behind. He felt cowed and angry, weak but stubborn. He would not yield to this woman despite the agony he was experiencing.

He prayed fiercely that someone would interrupt her torture fest, save him out of his predicament. Shumpert knew he had left for his apartment and he was most likely waiting for him at their designated meeting spot, but he would not wait long. Not when he noticed the Governor's tardiness for a man who was very on point.

Shumpert will come. He knew it. He would just have to hold on until then and not give this woman the pleasure of hearing him scream.

"Don't worry about the girl. I put her in the room with the many walker heads. What is she to you, anyways? Another sex slave?" Michonne spat and grimaced, thinking the worst. "I don't even want to know."

Penny…He'd forgotten about her in his despair. His sweet daughter. If this _cunt_ harmed even one single hair on her precious head, he would _destroy_ her. What he had done to her until now will seem like a walk compared to what horrors his imagination could conjure.

"We should get started, shouldn't we? Look here." Michonne showed him an array of instruments laid carefully at her side. They all glinted and shone deadly in the low light of the apartment, promising never-ending pain. The Governor felt his breath lengthen as he seized each and every one and recognized them as his own tools and kitchen wear. "I'm going to use everything here on you before you die. Pliers, hammer, torch, electric power drill, spoon." She clinically regarded the power drill and tested its weight in her grip. "I think I'm going to start with this."

The sound the drill made terrified him beyond all measure. He'd never heard a more wicked sound before.

The sharp edge perforated his shoulder and he screamed into the piece of plastic over his mouth. Tears flowed from the godawful pain, despite his reluctance. His synapses all fired up and burnt as the agony passed through his system. His body shook with the force of the power drill and he could feel, in minute detail, the spiral make burrow into his flesh.

When she finished with one side, Michonne started with the other, giving him twins. All over, the pain began and the Governor wished for sweet relief in the form of unconsciousness. He was going insane—the sounds, the smell, the feeling—everything was to be his undoing. He could feel his sanity slip away with each inch the drill dug deeper. To his hopeless delight, oblivion came when the drill hit bone.

* * *

Michonne turned off the drill and watched as the Governor's head loled and then hung lifelessly. He was still breathing, she knew. He had just passed out from the pain.

She couldn't have that. This was only the beginning.

Blood trickled down his bare form as Michonne threw away the power drill. With a few stripes of duct tape she shallowly and pitilessly taped his bleeding holes. Looking at him now, tied up and helpless, Michonne felt no elation, just a bottomless, black rage that could not find any respite. With each passing minute it grew and grew until she felt like suffocating. In that dark cell, there had been nothing to do than fantasize on what atrocities she would rain down on the cause of her suffering. Hours, days of horrifying thoughts, each worse than the last would roll before her eyes like an old movie. Never once did she shy away from these bleak images. She fed on them, fed on her anger, fed on the knowledge that she will exact her revenge—all for this moment. And here she was, as in her imagination—standing tall and undefeated against her now chained up captor.

She would not bend. She would not fear. She would not beg for mercy.

Michonne felt her breathing shorten and her nostrils flare. Her heart thundered against her rib cage as hot blood pumped through her veins. She felt _alive_ again. She had the power now and the Governor was no more than a cow sent to the slaughter.

With a mighty swing of her open hand, she slapped consciousness back into the man. He didn't get to take the easy way out. No, his punishment will be long and slow. Death will be a dearly forgotten dream. The pain will be his only companion. He will have to learn to cope with it, to live with it, to _adore_ it like a god as his sanity slipped through his fingers. When he both felt and understood the exact same pain, both physical and psychological, that he had inflicted upon her, only then she might let him expire. But until then, he didn't get to sleep through the torment.

"Wake up!"

A stir and Michonne knew he was swimming back to awareness.

Picking up the pliers next, she headed for his bounded hand just as the Governor's eyes began to groggily open. The first nail that she ripped off had the Governor awake within a fraction of a second, screeching into his gag. One by one by one, the nails dislodged from meat like slugs from the ground, leaving thin strings of blood as the only attachment left. They even made a wet sound that had Michonne lightly gag, but she persevered. She still had three more to take.

It was music to her ears, his screaming. There was even this faint song playing at the back of her mind that went well with the situation. It was jolly with a nice beat and it almost had Michonne shuffle her feet to the rhythm. The tempo went well with the man's agonized screaming. Michonne faintly reflected that she had heard this song before, but was too engrossed with her task to give it much thought. Besides, the song fit perfectly with all the blood.

As she threw away the pair of pliers with the last fingernail attached, Michonne followed up with her next choice—the spoon.

"You're going to _love_ this."

* * *

The Governor stirred.

Michonne strained her arms as she pulled the spoon out with all her might. The silver piece plopped with a disgusting wet sound, bright red blood soon following after. The Governor groaned in ache as his body hung hopelessly from his bonds. He almost seemed tired to even voice his pain as now only grunts and moans came out, the screams having died out some time ago. It didn't suit well with Michonne as she studied the dirtied spoon, flecked with feces and blood.

"And I thought getting it _in_ was hard."

Did he enjoy it she wondered? To be bent over and degraded in such a manner? To have something jammed into your body without permission, with the sole purpose of causing pain and injury?

 _He does now…_

She had worked that spoon inside him like a steel rod, slithering and tearing down the walls until blood came out in droves. Without an ounce of mercy to his muffled screeches and convulsing body, she thrust the spoon inside again and again and again with such brutality that it sent the man into oblivion once more. Pride was such a fragile thing. How easily the walls can be brought down and shattered at just the right action. If this man had thought only women can be tarnished in such a manner then he did not know the world. Homosexuality was a much bigger taboo in a man's world. The ultimate sin. Men have been beaten and killed at only the faintest whisper, true or otherwise. To be subjected to it, without consent, was right up in tier with having your privates cut off. It could make grown men cry like babies at the mere mention of it. Death was a far better alternative.

Michonne had seen it before. She'd been a lawyer. Had seen what prison time had done to some. She could tell just from one glance if the prisoner had been 'baptized' or not.

 _Lawyer…_

She had been a lawyer. She had thought for people's rights, their causes and their grievances. And here she was now, fighting a much different battle that had no room for that silver tongue she once possessed. Michonne was laying out judgement without a judge or jury. No law or court officer could stop her. All those were now a distant memory and the only reckoning left was that that you took into your own hands.

Michonne delivered a brutal kick to the side of the Governor's head. His entire body shuddered in the bonds and a whimper left his thoroughly beaten self.

She used to hate people that thought they were above the law. The ones that took matters into their own hands and delivered justice like some cheap movie vigilante. That had not been righteousness, only vengeance. A reason to vent suppresed anger. And what did they get out of it except for charges and possibly prison time?

But now she understood. The feeling of punishing the person that wronged you was a sweet dish served hot. She could not believe that she had once been that ignorant. The saying was true then—try walking a mile in some else's shoes and only then will you understand.

It was _glorious._ Michonne could not explain the exhilaration she felt coursing through her veins. It was better than winning a game, orgasms, landing your dream job, dream spouse, or having children. They all paled in comparison.

Michonne felt strong. Strong enough that she could kill all these motherfuckers in this hick town and send them all to hell, but first…she had to deal with _him._

"I think I kicked you too hard." Michonne crouched to his level, spoon held menacingly. "It looks like something ripped."

Grabbing him by the hair, Michonne pulled savagely until she felt locks give away and held his head for better access. The Governor's bloodshot eyes widened in terror as he noticed the spoon's trajectory.

"Don't struggle." Her grip on his hair tightened until a trickle of blood rolled down his temple. "You don't want to make this harder than it will be."

The rim of the soiled spoon slid past the lower pupil and dug underneath. The squish it made as the spoon ended right behind the eye did not even give pause to the woman. She just pulled. Like a catapult, the eyeball launched out of the man's socket leaving only a cavernous emptiness of the darkest and deepest crimson she had ever seen. Blood spurted out and dribbled down his cheek as the eye drooped forlornly from the socket held by only a few thin strings.

Once again did the man pass out, leaving only Michonne's labored breathing to echo out in the apartment so loudly that it drowned out the undead girl's groaning. As her eyes landed on the detached eye, she only now noticed what a pretty shade of blue they held that Michonne could almost put it on a string and wear it as a bauble. Looking over his body, at the destruction she had caused compiled with the goriness and blood and the foul smell, Michonne could not control her nausea anymore and retched to the side.

The song still echoed through her head, adding more revulsion.

She crawled away from the man as if diseased and hit the back of a couch. She did not even notice that tears began to pour freely as her whole body shook from the shock of what she had done. Now that the adrenaline and vengeance was gone from her high-strung mind, she was left with a bitter taste in her mouth and the mental anguish of what she had caused. Her hands were stained in so much blood that she could not even see the color of her skin. Her breath came in short gasps and she hiccuped from time to time, unable to control the shaking in her body. There were so many emotions battling inside her heart that they were tearing her apart. She did not know whether to rejoice that she had gotten her revenge, to feel disgust at herself for what she had done or to finally have the time to bawl her eyes out for what had been done to her, to lay in a pile of self-pity and victimization. Everything was so confusing. She was standing at a crossroad, lost to wich direction to take.

 _The song…_

The one stuck in her head as she tortured the Governor. Now she realized why she knew even the lyrics by heart. That song had been her daughters favorite one. They listened to it almost every day to the point that it drove Michonne to exasperation.

Why…Why had she remembered that song as she was doing those horrible things? Why did that sweet song of pure happiness be tainted by this moment? She could not see it as her daughters favorite song anymore. She could only associate the Governor's bloodied and mangled form with it.

Tears flowed in heavy rivulets.

There was no more innocence left. Not in her, not in the world. All had been corrupted and twisted into deformity and her along with it. This had been her turning point. She had crossed the boundary of morality and humanity and tasted evil and it _terrified_ her. That song had been her own consciousness trying to steer her from the horrors she was unleashing, but it had fallen on deaf ears. The call for blood had been too loud, muting all other sounds. Had she always been capable of such monstrosities? Had it been laying dormant inside her all this time waiting for the right moment? She had been a mother, a lawyer, an upstanding citizen of the world fighting for fairness and now…blood ran down her hands with no end in sight. And she had thoroughly _enjoyed_ it.

Michonne lamented silently in the darkness of the apartment, nobody to hear her misery.

* * *

Time passed and Michonne did not move from her position, tightly hugging her knees.

She cried like a child, fearing no end to her tears—for what was lost, for what she had become, for what she still had to do. This world would not give her any comfort as there was none to give. She had to struggle to her feet and keep on moving, otherwise risk being swallowed by it like so many others. But she felt so exhausted both physically and mentally. Why did she have to keep on going even as the world beat her back a few steps, reminding her that she was not as untouchable as she thought she was?

So long she had worn that shield around herself that she had become a jaded creature, lost to human interaction. Even when she stumbled upon Andrea and Samara, she had not known how to act but with her golem mask. Samara with her arrogance and fierceness in the face of danger, but always a person to depend on despite her alleged indifference. Kind and sweet Andrea that even though had been touched by heartache, she still marched forward with a worn smile and a strong front. Michonne had not understood how she still found a shred of hope in this desolate world, only months later once their little mismatched group turned into a tight-knit pack. Michonne had once again been able to feel safe and trust, even smile. Hope for a new life blossomed with the arrival of Tyreese and his warm and loving embrace, and Michonne found a new family to cherish and keep safe. But this man…He took that all away. He showed her how easy it had been to tear down that happiness and taint it. She had been unable to help any of her friends, only cause Rick to get hurt. She had been unable to escape her bonds and had to lay helpless as this man both internally and externally ruined her.

—She had been unable to save herself, unlike so many times before.

In the end, she was only a mortal and a _woman_ at that, and that was what the surviving world saw her as. She was just another person to bully and terrify into submission by the crudest methods possible. From time immemorial, the knowledge that men and women were not equal was now freely abused. Not in strength and not in importance. They were only a breeding ground or a pleasant manner in which to get off. Not all thought this, her group being one. But was a few in the face of the thousands still left alive?

And Michonne _hated_ them for that and she hated herself for her _weakness_.

But there was one thing this man could not take away and neither anyone else could—her will to never give up. To keep on going even as the world burned around her and all her loved ones perished along. She will still be walking, one step at a time, fighting this world that tried to bring her to her knees.

With dried tears on her cheeks, Michonne picked herself off the floor and stood tall. Her heart still hurt, but it was time to put away her grief, lock it up tight where no one could find it, and focus on her task. She was not done with the Governor, not by far. He had much to pay for.

Her boot crashed against the man's stomach, waking him up with a sputter and cough. The Governor retched to the side, unable to control his gut anymore. He shivered uncontrollably from the damage done and the knowledge that the torture would continue.

Picking up the blow torch, Michonne ignited its lovely blue and red flames as her eyes landed on her next target to butcher.

"I'm going to use it in a place you will forever miss, especially when you will find yourself alone with a woman."

It wasn't even a choice, but a duty. This man will never again hurt another woman, not with that vile _thing_.

As she prepared to do the deed, dead inside and with steady fingers, a sudden knock came on the door. Immediately, the flames disperse and Michonne's pupils dilated in alarm. Had that been the undead girl knocking things inside the tank room or the front door?

The Governor had heard it too even through his frenzied mind, and began shouting even as his mouth was gagged.

"Governor! What's going on? You're never late!"

Michonne's fears came to reality. Someone had come to disrupt her vengeance.

With a heavy intake of regret, Michonne dropped the blowtorch and picked up her katana which she had found in his apartment, displayed like a trophy. There was no more time left. She had to run and reach Samara and Merle before they too were lost to her.

"Sir? What was that?"

Coffee eyes moved to the bloodied form on the floor and whispered vacuously.

"One thing left to do before I go."

Calmly, the woman walked to the aquarium room and opened the door. Penny shuffled out, for once without restraint as the cut chain dragged behind her. There were deep gashes on the wooden door from where the walking corpse scratched against it, frenzied from the stench of blood. Ravenous, she headed for the Governor eager to taste his flesh. It would be poetic, Michonne thought, for the tables to turn. His captive was now the Govenor's source of terror and soon he would become food to it.

Now that her time had been cut short, Michonne begrudgingly could not resume her torture. But all things must come to an end, and she would not leave without making sure the Governor breathed his last.

Something caught her eye, though. Michonne stepped over the end of the chain and the girl stopped just short of reaching the Governor. The man's eyes were wide in alarm and tears flowed freely down his face, but they weren't out of fear for himself…but for _her_.

"She means something to you." Michonne whispered in realization. What had she represented once—a daughter, a family member? Either ways, it was someone he could not part with in life or death.

Initially, she had just wanted to leave the undead girl to devour him, but now…What could be _sweeter_?

The katana shone.

The Governor's lone eye widened so far, it threatened to pop out and join its sibling. The cocktail of fear and horror and mercy and pleading was so palpable that it would have broken even the strongest man's heart, but Michonne was immune to his show of emotion. Not even the love so blatantly visible for the undead girl could steer her resolve. She did not view him as human, thus would not treat him as one.

With a steady swing of her katana, Michonne scalped the girl, spraying blackish blood, so thick it looked like tar, on the Governor. The man paused in shock, unable to comprehend what had just happened. But once her body hit the floor along with the cut off scalp with dirty golden locks, the screaming began. A howl so miserable it threatened to tear him in two. This was the wailing of a parent mourning the death of their child.

Michonne simply stared apathetically at his plight. The girl meant nothing, just another dead thing walking around and him even less than an object.

The man beyond began to bash against the door, alarmed by the scuffling he heard inside and the muffled wails. At any moment the door could come down, judging by the way it trembled and splintered against the force. Michonne could not fight him, not in the state she was in. The only thing left to do was run.

Not even sparing a look at the mess she left behind, Michonne headed for the bedroom window through where she had crawled in. Nothing was left on her mind except to escape this godforsaken place.

Just as she climbed over the window rail, she heard the door finally cave in and crash against the floor.

"Holy shit!"

The man's horrified shout became a distant memory as she flung herself into the darkness of the night.


	44. Wolf in Sheep's Clothing

Ringlets of smoke gathered above her head. Samara watched them with a dispassionate gaze, barely aware of their noxious presence or anything else for that matter. Her mind was wandering past her present conditions, into fears that pimpled her skin and left her restless.

Michonne was mostly on her mind. Hours had passed since she and Merle arrived at the crash site and with each minute gone, Samara began to worry that her friend would never return. Michonne had opted to stay behind in the beast's lair, to face it fangs and pluck them one by one until her thirst for vengeance was satiated. But the waiting was the worst. This continuous silence paved with ignorance of events and worry for her safety had Samara on edge, her stomach bubbling with anxiety.

Even sleep was an unwelcome respite. Sleep…more like unconsciousness. She had blacked out twice while isolated inside the metal bulk of the helicopter and each time she woke up with a splitting headache. The fact that her body began to sweat profoundly from the growing heat inside her, left Samara in a bitter state. The infection was spreading and there was nothing she could do about it except lead her mind away from her body's deterioration. But try as she might, her thoughts eventually wandered back to her dilapidated condition. She hungered again and her thirst was inconsolable. Samara had even resorted to _pleading_ with Merle to find some water but the man had been fruitless in his search. There was nothing to do but wait and smoke the cigarette she had managed to pry off Merle, but even the tobacco held no taste.

Merle had been restless even before they reached the crash site. He did not relish the thought of camping so close to Woodbury, and truth be told neither was Samara. At any moment someone could come upon the dead man near the Room or the unconscious Bruce, whom Merle had punched the lights out to get to Samara, as he later revealed. The men of Woodbury outnumbered them and could cover more distance, so their hiding place was not as safe as Samara's dazed mind initially thought.

Merle held no hope for Michonne. He had written her off as dead the moment she had left on her mad quest. He had tried, several times, to instill that idea into Samara so they might move on, but the Native was stubborn. She knew Michonne better than the hick did. She would come. She had said so. But then why wouldn't those doubts quiet inside her heart?

Glenn and Rick…she was afraid for them too, but both were out of her reach, just like Michonne. If only she had been at full strength…but instead she was crippled and injured so badly she could barely walk without needing rest every half hour. Her severed finger had gotten worse. There was an acrid smell wafting off it and Merle, cursing the stench in such a confined space, found her some plantain to put on the wound. It didn't help sooth her pains, but she hoped it would stall the infection from spreading.

"Out of curiosity," Merle started as he puffed out a cloud of smoke. He lounged in the pilot's seat, his feet propped up on the crushed-in dashboard. "How many of the Atlanta group are still alive and kickin'? Glenn mentioned Jim, Shane and Dale."

"I don't know…who Jim is and Shane…died last autumn." Her lips felt sticky and cracked. There was white saliva dried at the corner of her lips and her throat felt so dry even swallowing became a burden.

Merle snorted. "How did Officer Friendly die? Not that I care, that guy was a pain in the dick. Struttin' around, orderin' people like his shit smelled like roses."

"Rick…killed him. He was…out of control"

A ghost of a memory. Of white sheets and owls, but they soon dissolved into the pool of her subconsciousness.

"Went batshit, huh?" Merle chuckled, his gaze sparkling with dark mirth. "He never seemed to me like he got all his birdies in the nest."

"I'm amazed…you even managed to see…anything considering you were high…twenty-four seven."

"I had my off days." He mused lightly. "Can't always be surfin' the pink tide." His probing glare returned to her, observing her in detail. "What about Dale?"

"Alive."

"And?"

Samara glowered back weakly. "And you'll see…the others once…we get there."

He was fishing and she would not indulge him. He was still her enemy despite their temporary alliance.

"Don't need to be so tight-arsed, honey." Merle scoffed, mindful of her wariness. "We're all gonna be one big happy family, after all.

"And how did you…imagine that would…happen? You do realize…that except for Daryl…no one will welcome you with open arms? You're not…exactly a favorite." That was the _least_ to say.

He shrugged. "Don't give a shit. The only thing I care about is seein' my brother again. We'll sort everythin' else later."

Samara stared at him intensely. Despite her slow train of thought, the Native was not stupid enough to trust this man. The reason for her liberation still hung uncertain in the air. She only partially believed that Merle had freed her for his brother, but there had to be something else. Something he was not even hinting towards and that was what kept Samara on edge. He had a hidden agenda and Samara _loathed_ him for it.

She tried to think logically for a reason, but her head hurt too much. Maybe later when she got her hands on more painkillers, but right now she just wanted to rest and wake up maybe next century.

The older hunter suddenly moved. He jumped out of his seat and silently moved over to her side, his gun out.

"Wha—"

"Shh." Merle hissed and pushed her to the cold floor. "Get down!"

Someone was outside. Merle must have heard a rustle or something and acted accordingly. Tension coiled around their bodies and left them with their stomachs clenched. It could be anyone out there in the dark. From walkers to Woodbury soldiers to…Michonne.

Samara could not see what was happening as she lay low, but Merle did. The tension in his muscles was visible as his veins bulged underneath the skin. Despite his high alert state, he never once picked up his breathing. It slowed until he barely looked like he was still alive. A marble statue of a predator in waiting.

"Tsk."

Merle let his gun lower as a scowl contorted his lips.

"Damn bitch just won't die." He grumbled as he observed beyond Samara's vision with a dour expression.

Samara's eyes widened with the revelation.

"Michonne!"

Scampering onto unstable feet, Samara left the safety of the metal beast and limped off to meet her friend, flashlight illuminating her path.

Michonne looked the same, not a new scratch on her, but her eyes…They reflected no light even in the brightness of the lamp. Samara approached cautiously, mindful of any sudden movements. From the look of her, Michonne did not seem to be altogether herself and startling her might not be a wise move.

"Thank the gods…you're alright. I was actually…starting to worry."

Words could not express the relief she felt at the sight of her friend whole. Samara had expected some wounds, but Michonne had a way of surprising her every now and then. Even her katana was surprisingly back in her hands.

"Did you find…the Governor?" Samara gasped with each breath, hanging onto hope with dear life. _Please tell me you hurt him_. "Did…you kill him?"

Those empty eyes sought her at long last after staring out into open space. A spark of life seemed to ignite as Michonne tilted her head curiously.

"Kill? Kill who? I don't know what you're talking about, Samara."

Samara was left in wide disbelief. Michonne barely spared her a glance as she walked away, heading towards the other side of the open field where the trees sprouted once again.

"Michonne…?" There was fear in the Native's voice. Something was very _wrong_.

"Come on, we only have a few hours before dawn."

The indifference grated on Samara's nerves. She wanted to slap the woman and shake her and yell at her to come out of that automaton armor she slipped into. After what she'd been through, it was a normal reaction for the traumatized mind to protect itself and go numb. She'd seen Michonne in similar states before, but never like this. She seemed no different than the walking dead and it gave Samara a nauseatingly _familiar_ feeling.

 _That bastard…That evil fucking bastard!_

"Michonne, wait!"

Samara wobbled after her and barely caught up with her brisk step. Mindful not to touch, Samara tried to cut off her straight and narrow path.

"Wait!" She lifted her hand in a halting motion, breathing heavily as sweat oozed down her face. The short exertion already had her dripping like a stuck pig, her voice hoarse. "You left us…at the alley. You said you had…unfinished business with…the Governor. You left…to confront him."

"And?"

 _Stop it. Stop looking at me like I'm not even here._

Those dead eyes were killing her inside. She felt powerless and feeble against them. Nobody had been able to help Michonne, not in her darkest hour. Her calls had been met with deaf ears and Samara felt like weeping and cursing the gods, the Christian god, the Governor, Woodbury, whomever that this _atrocity_ had to happen.

Something broke inside Michonne. Splintered off and got left behind in that dark room with the stains on the floor.

"What happened…Michonne? Did you…find him? Is he…dead?"

She had to know. Should she still fear the man or did he perish from this world like an unwanted disease?

Michonne eyes fleeted about almost in distress as she nervously licked her lips. "I-I…I don't know. Maybe. I'm not sure." She shook her head, her dirtied dreads swaying. Whatever was on her mind seemed an unwelcome guest. "Please, let's just go. I don't want to spend another night out in the open."

Defeated, Samara let Michonne walk away. She would get nothing out of her, not in her current state. Samara had seen the face of trauma before. How after the fact it crashed over one's mind, leaving only a blank slate and a far away gaze into nothingness. Sometimes even the body caved in, but Michonne seemed to be the kind that goes into autopilot—they have only one goal in mind to which they marched towards without a single other thought in place.

There was nothing to be done. Samara was no shrink. She might have had some experience with traumatized soldiers, hell, even she herself had suffered from a mild form of PTSD after her first tour abroad and then again, more pronounced, after she quit the army, but that did not mean she had the cure for it. There was none. You either learned to live with the choices you made and ther consequences thereafter and make peace with yourself, or…you chose the easier path, the one to auto-destruction, as many had…

A crunch to her left and Merle appeared in her peripheral vision.

"Sweetheart, that woman ain't got all her marbles in one bag."

Samara bit her lip. Right now, Michonne was far from the safety of sanity. She was swimming in murky waters where no light shone and if she was not careful enough, the weeds would entangle around her body and pull her under, never to be seen again.

"I'm gonna be keepin' my eye on her." Merle hissed as he took a drag from his cigarette, his hard eyes trailing after the sword-wielder with electrifying intensity. "I ain't gonna let that bitch go all Looney Tunes and get us killed."

Samara scowled at his crudeness and left him behind, preferring to shadow the other woman instead. As much as she detested thinking this, Merle was right in a sense. If Michonne ever lashed out in a fit of loss of control, Samara would have to be the one to bring her to heel. Merle was out of the question. If _he_ so much as breathed her way, Michonne might lose the remaining bit of sanity she still possessed.

The Native prayed to her people's silent gods to not let that happen. She did not think she could go through another emotional collapse.

* * *

Soft puffs dissolved into the chill of the night air. The crickets were his only companion as he stared at the cloudy sky. The moon shied away from being seen and only a handful of stars dimly shone on the pitch cobalt canvas.

Daryl savagely bit on his thumb as he sat on one of the tables, sleep the furthest thing from his mind. His mind ate at him for the choices he made earlier today. He was still unsure if he had done the right thing, to keep his people at the prison and not out there searching, but at this point it wasn't even a choice but an obligation. He could not keep endangering the ones still among them, chasing ghosts and never-ending leads. If he lost another person to mysterious circumstances, he swore he would lose his mind. Despite his heart bleeding for his lost friends and Samara, Daryl had no choice but to keep his emotions at bay. He needed to be levelheaded. He needed to exhale strength so the ones left alive wouldn't dissolve into bare pandemonium. He had to keep them together, no matter what.

Guilt also tore at his insides. For not stopping this senseless search sooner. In the end, it was his fault that Rick, Michonne and Glenn disappeared without a trace. They had been searching for Samara and Oscar because Daryl couldn't let go of _her_. Because he still carried that deceiving hope that he would find her, but what a fool he made of himself. What chances were there for him to _actually_ find her? The world was vast and dangers prowled at every turn and Samara had been taken by those very dangers. He could not hope to see her again, alive or dead.

He had failed her. Once again. He had neither been able to save her at the farm nor here. He should have let her take the bullet. In the light of everything, it seemed like the merciful choice. He should have been the one suffering in her place, not her.

 _Goddamn, what did I do?_

He had sent her to an even worse fate, to die fighting like some animal. But at that time, the only thing running through his mind was that he had to keep her alive, even at the expense of his own life. At that time, Daryl did not believe he could bear watching her brains get splattered on the tile floor.

He felt so uselesss. He had lost his brother and now he lost _her_ , both to uncertain fates with no way of knowing if they lived or not.

Daryl hissed. He had bitten off a thin trail of skin, beads of blood pooling. But the sting was nothing compared to his inner turmoil. The hunter lay in the dark, his own mind torturing him without pause. So enraptured was he in his misery that he failed to hear the soft rumble in the distance accompanied by a faint crunching of pebbles and scattering of dirt.

Only when a shout came from the watch tower did he wake from his stupor.

"Car!" Sasha yelled loud enough to wake the dead.

Daryl jumped to his feet as if burnt.

Light could be seen slithering through the thick foliage of the forest. A ray of hope or a damning was headed down the dirt road.

Daryl ran, his mind blank and his body aflame. He ran on pure instinct, his body propelling him forward with his crossbow in hand. There was a car coming up ahead and he had no idea if it was friend or foe.

The car reached the outer gate just as Daryl lunged for cover behind the small guard outpost. Beads of sweat pooled at his temple, but he was eerily calm. Even his breath was steady as he peered over the corner. He could not see anything in the blackness of night, save for the car's outline.

The driver's side door opened.

Daryl tightened his grip on the crossbow and aimed true. He observed as a figure, shorter than him, exited the car. This person was hurt, that much Daryl could tell from the way _he_ dragged his body and the short, jerky movements. His fingers poised over the trigger as the man all but fell on the chain fence.

"Is anyone out there? Guys!"

Daryl's heart stopped.

His crossbow felt so weak in his grip as _Glenn_ called out again. Daryl's mind went blank as he could not comprehend what was happening. How was Glenn here? Where did he come from?

"Oh my God…" A woman's astonished voice came out of the darkness. "Glenn, is that you?!"

Sasha ran past the guard outpost. Her fingers fumbled with the many padlocks and chains keeping the gates tightly shut, intent on letting their missing man inside.

Daryl walked out of his cover and tried to peer through the darkness at Glenn. There was that bit of doubt eating at him, unable to let Daryl savor this joyous moment. What if this was a trap? Because of that thought only, he could not lower his guard. His crossbow remained ready to shoot at the slightest provocation. He would take no chances, not in these troubled times.

He tried to peer closer, but it was to no use. Even at this proximity he still could only see the Korean's outline in the car's glaring lights, but Glenn could clearly see him.

"Daryl…" His voice trembled and cracked at the end. He sounded so miserable and defeated that Daryl forgot all about his uncertainties, and launched himself forward in helping Sasha.

 _It'_ _s him._

Once both sets of gates were open, the car rolled in and Daryl caught Glenn before his knees gave out under him. He was a mess. He had been beaten severely, half his face swollen and Daryl could still smell old sweat, crusted blood and tears on him.

"What the hell happened to you, Glenn? Where were you?" Daryl shook him a bit too brusquely, but he was desperate for answers. He had thought them lost, never to be seen again. "Tell me!"

"We were captured." Glenn rasped through swollen lips. "These people…they tried to beat our location out of me. I didn't say anything." He looked to Daryl, fresh tears pooling. There was a frenzied desperation in his gaze as if he _needed_ Daryl to believe him. "I had to watch…but I never said anything."

"Aright…I believe you." Daryl helped him move forward, one hand over his back while the other held Glenn's arm over his shoulders. There was a light quiver to his form and Daryl had to grind his teeth to keep himself from cursing out loud. He felt a violent anger surge within him, wanting release. Glenn looked similar to a cornered animal as his eyes darted in every direction, afraid of the slightest sound.

What happened to him? Daryl never thought he could feel even more helpless than before, but now he knew it could definitely get worse.

"Who's in the car, Glenn?" Daryl asked as he saw the car come to a stop just shy of the basketball court. Sasha was not far behind it, running at full speed with her flashlight on and rifle ready. _Smart woman._

"Rick." Glenn licked his dry and cracked lips. "And the other two."

 _Rick…_ Daryl watched wild eyed as the very same man climbed out of the car and hugged Sasha for dear life once she became aware of his identity.

Upon reaching them, Daryl noticed the heavy bloodied bandage around Rick's hand. Aside from that the man had suffered no other injury save for some shallow scratches. He was nowhere near as bad as Glenn. Once those light blue eyes settled on the hunter, a relief so great washed over Rick's features that Daryl thought he would shed a tear. Leaving Glenn with Sasha, Daryl embraced his friend tightly. For some strange reason, it felt like he was being reunited with a lost brother than a man he had known less than a year.

"Where were you?" Daryl asked once they disentangled. Rick smelled heavily of antiseptics and sanitary alcohol which made Daryl believe that he had resided somewhere inside a clinic or hospital long enough for the smell to embed into his clothing.

"Woodbury." Rick said just as the passenger doors opened and two other stepped out. Neither of them was Michonne to the hunter's dread. "We got taken while we chased a helicopter."

"A chopper?" Sasha was the one to ask as she herself eyed the strangers with mistrust. One was a young woman, the other a Hispanic in his mid thirties and they both looked haggard and exhausted.

Rick nodded. "Somebody else saw it too and they got us."

Daryl eyes immediately narrowed on the two strangers. They were not captives, but Daryl could not see them as allies either.

"Who—"

"Later." He waved off Sasha's questions as his voice hardened with urgency. "Right now, we need Hershel. Sasha, go wake him up, please."

Despite her reluctance, Sasha obeyed. Daryl was left with helping Glenn as they walked sedately into the prison. Despite the darkness, Daryl could see the tension in Rick's hunter eagerly wished for further answers, but he had to be patient. Rick will divulge everything in due time, once everyone was awake. His eyes darted back to the two following behind, his intent hidden. What to make of them, he wondered.

Sensing his curiosity, Rick understood the silent question Daryl directed at him.

"They're _alright_."

The Georgia man was no fool. Rick sounded sincere to the untrained ear, but Daryl had been around him too long not to notice certain tones. He would keep his eyes on the two, of that Daryl was certain.

"Where's Michonne?"

The dreaded question was out in the open. Daryl knew from the moment her stony presence was absent from the party that something happened. He badly wished it wasn't what he was thinking.

The look Rick gave him had Daryl _fear_.

* * *

They eventually reached a town. Samara had fainted only once on the way as she basked in a generally light-headed mood. Sometimes the world wavered and toppled, but a few deep breaths kept her walking. The blood loss, fatigue, lack of treatment and fever were starting to affect her greatly as the smell on her stump was getting more putrid with each passing minute.

The small town was deserted save for a few walkers which Michonne got rid of mechanically. The two women kept sentry as Merle fiddled with the wires of a car to start its engines. Daylight was still far away and the night was making them agitated, their nerves strained far and thin.

Michonne was still the same unresponsive golem that it made Samara shiver being near her. The woman gave off such a murky aura that it felt almost suffocating to be near her. Everything in her manner, from her impregnable eyes to her tense arms, shouted 'stay away'.

What had Michonne done to the Governor, Samara wondered. Something terrible must have happened for Michonne to retreat in such an isolated shell, void of emotion. But what ate at Samara worse was the unknown—did the Governor still live or had he finally been slain like the monsters of fables?

"Michonne…" Samara began with a raspy gasp. "Do you…need to talk?"

The corner of the sword-wielder's mouth twitched, but other than that she expressed nothing. "I'd rather not."

"I'm sorry—"

"Don't." She barked forcefully cold, her eyes daggers on Samara's skin. "Say that. The only one I blame is lying in a pool of his own blood. I'm just…" She closed her eyes and took a deep breath to calm herself. "I'm just _glad_ you're alive. How did you get there, Samara?"

In her own tired and sloppy pace, Samara retold the full story and by the end of it remained out of breath. Talking made her exhaustion even worse. Michonne listened to everything with stony silence and sharp eyes.

"We found the farm house where you were held by coincidence." Michonne said once she processed everything. "Found a badly burnt corpse. Daryl had a hunch who it was, but he didn't want to upset the others. He was right in the end."

 _Poor Oscar._ Once Samara got a little of her strength back, she vowed to go back after him and give his corpse a proper burial. It was the least she could do.

Now that they were getting closer, Samara felt an urgent itch underneath her skin. Their path was taking them closer to the prison and subsequently to Daryl, and Samara felt an uneasiness atypical of her. It burrowed deep in her heart and like poison, it slowly crawled through her veins until she felt her limbs tremble and her mind tumble into turmoil.

"I thought _he_ was dead, Michonne." She whispered almost afraid of being heard. "I thought I saw him die."

Michonne nodded understandingly.

"He's worried sick about you. There were days where he wouldn't eat, wouldn't even rest just so he could be out there searching for you. He never gave up."

Despite the lifeless way in which Michonne said it, Samara still felt a profound stirring in her heart. She swallowed the lump that threatened to burst out and hid behind that wall of pragmatic callousness that she was so fond of.

" _Fool_." She spat, annoyance bubbling in the pit of her stomach. "If he hadn't…been searching…you wouldn't have…stumbled upon Woodbury. He should have…let me go the moment…I was taken."

He shouldn't have searched for her. Just like the farm, he should have moved on instead of wasting supplies on a ghost hunt. If he had only chosen to leave her behind…none of this would have happened. But even in her anger, the Native knew it wasn't his fault. Daryl could not have foreseen such an outcome. He had only followed his heart.

Samara swallowed thickly at that particular thought.

"Wouldn't you have done the same if you'd been in his shoes?" Ever knowing, Michonne read her like an open book.

Samara pursed her lips, begrudgingly. "Up to a point."

Michonne pointed gaze might have cowed a weaker person, but not Samara. Although, she did feel a light tug to bury her face in the sand, anxious that Michonne could see through her steel wall. Thankfully, the woman gave her respite as her gaze traveled to the man in the car, cursing under his breath as he fiddled with the wires.

"Are we _really_ taking him with us?" Her voice was low enough that even Samara had to strain her hearing, but she understood the hidden meaning all the same.

"Trust me, I was going to, but I can't do it anymore."

"Because you found out Daryl's alive."

Samara nodded, grudgingly. "I can't just kill his brother, but I'm betting Rick won't want him in the group either. This man can't stay with us, but he can't return to Woodbury either. I don't trust him not to tell the Governor our location."

"Even if he does go back, he won't be welcome."

"What do you mean?"

"I told _him_ about our meeting in Geneva. He wasn't very happy about it considering he didn't even know it happened." Michonne's coffee orbs shone malignantly. "Daryl's brother has some explaining to do, _if_ he's ever dumb enough to go back."

Samara smirked, but there was no joy behind it. If the Governor was dead, then it didn't matter what standing Merle had within Woodbury. The dead cannot pass judgement, but if he was still alive…then they had more urgent matters than Merle's questionable loyalties.

"Michonne, if Martinez leaves before we get to the prison—"

"Let's hope that won't happen." Michonne cut her off abruptly. Talking about it wouldn't fix anything. At the moment, the only thing they could do was hope that the car would eventually start.

As if hearing their prayers, the engine suddenly rumbled.

"Done!" Merle hollered despite the many threats in the night. "Let's go, ladies!"

Samara laid sprawled in the backseat as she watched the scenery go by. The smoothness of the car's drive lulled her to slumber as tree after tree passed by all blending in one great dark splatter of green. There was no thing to fear now, no walker jumping her in the dark, no Woodbury soldier to capture her. She could finally rest her weary bones.

The Native did not even hear Michonne's gravelly words not to fall asleep as her body all but shut down.

* * *

Everyone was wide awake. Their state was partially Sasha's fault, with how noisy she had been in waking up Hershel, but mostly their sobriety came from the astounding story Rick had just finished telling. Of evil men with guns and knives and little to no mercy in their hearts. One only had to take a peek at Glenn to trust in the truthfulness of his words, of these Woodbury people's violence.

Once the news that both Rick and Glenn had returned, it had spread like wildfire among their group. Everyone had rushed out of their cells to see with their own eyes, almost afraid it was some cruel jest. But there they were, beaten and bloodied, but still alive…and without Michonne. Tyreese and Andrea had been affected the most. Thoughts of the woman dead swam in their minds and almost left them gasping, but Rick had pushed away those awful thoughts. At least for the moment. The fact that he himself did not know what became of Michonne left everyone in a dismal mood.

Upon seeing Glenn, Maggie had attached herself to him like a barnacle and refused to let go. Fiery kisses mingled with tears of sweet joy came pouring over Glenn like an unstoppable avalanche. Hershel had even had to reprimand her when his gentle persuasions of letting the boy be so he could treat his wounds fell on deaf ears.

Despite the differences between the Grimes couple, they still banded together as a family in this hour of rejoice. Lori cried heavy tears as Carl attempted to keep himself composed, but the sniffles he tried to hide were all too telling.

Almost everyone seemed to celebrate in their lost friends return, but the cheerful mood did not last. Once word about Woodbury was out in the open, that same merriment took a drastic turn into utter horror. The torture, the beatings, the sick man leading the town, but most of all, the two people that resided there.

 _Merle…and Samara._

Daryl felt cold shock crawl through his veins once the revelation was out. His thoughts jumbled and rolled around in his now heavy head and it took all his strength to remain unwavering in the face of such tidings. The two people he had lost had found each other unknowingly, but now they too had gone missing. Merle had taken Samara somewhere beyond Rick's knowledge, but for what reason?

This man—this Governor—had apparently been the one where Samara had been delivered for 'entertainment'. From Rick's story, she had lived and breathed among these Woodbury people as a prisoner and ally for the past two weeks, but once he and Glenn and Michonne arrived all hell broke loose. Samara had been confined to a cell and then tortured in front of Glenn for information on the prison's location. Neither had broken down, but Glenn would not say anything further on what exactly had been done to the woman. Even when Andrea persisted, he had taken one nervous glance at Rick and then at furtive one at Daryl and chose to keep silence.

Daryl felt numb. A deep, seething black rage was beginning to bubble inside the core of his very being and there was nothing and no one he could vent it on. Samara had been harmed and from Glenn's nervous reaction something _bad_ must have happened, and his brother…he had been the sole person that had caused the damage upon Glenn. His own brother had almost killed Glenn in a fit of anger.

That dark fury wrapped its hands around Daryl's throat, threatening to suffocate him. His head felt on the verge of imploding and never had he felt his blood simmer so hotly. Anger mixed with disgrace threatened to destroy the last of his defenses and leave him a ball of raw emotion. The stares the others had laid on him did little to alleviate his shame. He felt like the pariah he once had been back on the outskirts of Atlanta. Always defending his brother's actions and having to be the one to bear the brunt of the others' displeasure while Merle laughed and cursed them on without a care in the world. Whatever mess Merle made, Daryl had always been the one to clean up after him just like a _good_ little brother. Always and always and always. He'd known all of his life that Merle was a bastard, but to do this…

This was something even Daryl could not forgive. Not this time.

Daryl looked around him, at the terrified and anxious faces. Could smell the fear and anger in the air and the hunter knew he could not sit in this room for one second more, lest he vomit.

—He could not remain here while his brother and Samara were out there.

Abruptly he stood up, drawing attention.

"Daryl?" Carol asked worried. One look at his face and the woman almost recoiled in fear.

"I'm goin' there."

His proclamation had been like a glass shattering in an empty room. So finale that it left no room for doubt or negotiation.

"You can't!" Carol jumped to her feet just as Daryl turned away from all of them, intent on raiding his cell for all the weapons he could carry.

Lithe hands caught his arm, intent on stopping him, but he just pushed them away. Daryl would not stop. Nothing they could say would stop him from riding out of here and heading straight for Woodbury.

"Stop, Daryl! This isn't helping anyone!"

"Get your hands off me!" Daryl retched himself out of Rick's firm grip and stared the Kentucky man down. The anger now came pouring out of him in cringing waves, but it was not directed at his friends, but at people and situations that were out of his reach. "I'm goin' after them!"

"Daryl, we have to think about this."

"What for? We stay and chat around, Samara and Michonne might not be alive once we get there." He would not be sucked into a rational discussion. If that happened, they would stall and lose time and by that moment, Samara, Michonne and Merle might be dead. "If you can't come because of injuries, then stay. I don't need anyone. I can get them by myself."

He would not lose them. Not again.

"I'll help." Tyreese stood up, his grave eyes unwavering even in the heavy perils ahead. "I have to save Michonne, even if I die out there."

"Me too." Andrea's pale blue orbs glistened with barely suppressed ferocity. "Those are my friends out there. The same people I bled and lived with for a whole winter. I'm not gonna leave them out there."

"If my brother is going then so am I." Sasha soon followed.

Dale stood up and so did Axel and Beth and Maggie and even Glenn, despite his injuries. One by one they followed through, neither willing to leave two of their people behind. This would not be a repeat of the farm. This time they will stand united, through thick and thin and save their lost ones.

Rick looked around at the people he had surrounded himself with in these desolate times, but there was no anger present. A faint smile filled with pride ghosted over his lips. They were a _family_ , not just some people banding together for the sake of surviving.

"Alright." He nodded slowly, the smile never leaving him. "Let's go."

"Are you all insane?" Martinez exploded, looking at them with wide, flabbergasted eyes. "The Governor will be on high alert. You won't be able to get inside without being spotted. You're just going to the slaughter!"

"Martinez is right. You can't just go back in there, not after we just got out." Alice gripped her arms in fright, the tears still not fully dried on her cheeks. She, out of everyone, was _painfully_ aware of the consequences of being caught. "It's pure crazy!"

"They won't expect us to retaliate so early, so this is our best shot." Rick re-holstered his gun as his mind reeled over the ammunition they stored in the prison. They would need enough of it to face what laid behind Woodbury's walls. "We can't all go, just a small group to go about unnoticed. And Martinez, you're comin' too."

"No fucking way I'm going back!"

Rick's features hardened. "You wanna be a part of us, then you will help. We need a guide who knows Woodbury in and out and you're the only one."

"Fuck that!"

With just a few long strides, Daryl was upon Martinez and rising him up to his feet by his shirt.

"You _will_ go." He hissed dangerously, his nostrils flaring and hands shaking with barely contained rage. "I'm not fuckin' around here. I will hurt you in every possible way if you don't show us the way."

"Look man, even if I do, I don't know where Merle took the woman." Martinez was chagrined by Daryl's rough-housing, but he remained forcefully calm. It would not be in his best interest to agitate Daryl further, especially knowing that he too shared the same blood as Merle…and volatile temper, as it seemed. "The Native was supposed to come with me. I'm just as surprised that the woman wasn't in the cell when I went after Glenn. I don't know what Merle did with her."

"Wait, Martinez…" Alice began. "Is it possible that Merle also freed the other woman?"

The Hispanic shrugged. "Right now, I'd just believe about anything. I just don't understand why he would free her. Merle is the only one a _hundred_ percent loyal to the Governor beside Shumpert. He doesn't have anything to gain from it."

"No, that's not true. He does." Glenn's lethargic voice sounded loud and clear despite his weakened state. His gaze was firmly locked on Daryl with a knowing shine. "Because he thinks Samara's with _you_."

It took a few moments for the others to understand Glenn's words and when they did, various degrees of surprise, disbelief and perplexity were directed at Daryl.

If he'd thought before had been bad, Daryl now wanted to run out of the room as quickly as possible. Heat crawled up his throat and he felt his ears go cherry red, but his features remained the same stone cold and violent. This was not the time to deliberate what was between him and Samara or the fact that it was now out in the open.

 _She'll be pissed._

Rick spat as he looked to Daryl almost apologetically. "I told him. Just hours before Martinez got me out of the clinic. He must have taken her because of that."

Despite being under the almost blinding limelight, Daryl remained as unaffected as an undisturbed ocean. If Merle had taken Samara because he thought she was Daryl's, then the hunter felt a slight weight lift off his shoulders.

"That means he got her out of Woodbury. I know my brother. He won't come to me empty handed, not without securin' himself a safety-net."

"Samara's leverage?" Dale asked incredulously.

Daryl nodded. It was barbaric, but it was Merle's way of thinking. After what he'd done, Merle would want to bring a peace offering and what better way to do that than appease his own brother. This way, Daryl would not banish him even if the others cried for it.

"What about Michonne?" Tyreese looked frantic, eager to soothe his own doubt eaten mind. "Do you think he got her out too?"

"Merle, no, but Samara…" Andrea was the one to answer. "I bet my ass Samara didn't leave without Michonne"

"Then all the better we wait here instead of y'all goin' on a suicide mission." Alice tried to placate the frazzled tempers in the room, but it seemed to no avail. "They might not even be in Woodbury anymore!"

"Or they got captured on the way." Daryl shook his head, believing that he had delayed enough. "I ain't riskin' that."

"It's settled then." Rick put an end to anyone about to protest again. "Myself, Daryl, Tyreese and Andrea will go. The rest of you stay put in case they come here."

Despite her late pregnancy, Lori pounced on Rick as fast as a lioness and sunk her claws firmly in.

"This is insane, Rick! You can't go back!" Fresh tears gathered, this time out of shaking fear.

"I have to, Lori." He gently tried to pry her fingers away. "I can't leave them behind."

"You don't even know if they're still in that town!" She pleaded, her voice cracking at the helplessness she felt. She could not bear it if he left her again, knowing the slim chances of him returning _alive_ a second time. "They could be a mile away from here for all we know! We should wait at least for another day!"

"Dad, if you leave, how will you even know if Samara and Michonne do get back?" Carl spoke eerily calm, his baby blue eyes piercing his father from underneath his lashes. "You can't just leave without a way for us to contact you."

"Carl is right. Listen to your son!" She shook him, hoping to rid him of this madness. "We can't lose you!"

It was only a second—a fraction of a moment—but Daryl saw it. Rick hesitated.

"Fuck this."

Pandemonium erupted.

People panicked as Daryl all but shut his ears to the world, his path clear. Pack his guns, get a map, start his bike and ride for Woodbury. It was that easy. No second guessing and no discussions.

Once Daryl was finished strapping his gear to his bike, Andrea, Tyreese and a hesitant Martinez soon followed. They were armed for battle with grim faces to match. The others followed in their wake and still Rick could not escape Lori's desperate pleas. The woman was short of breaking into a complete hysterical fit by the time Maggie and Beth dragged her away with soothing words and calm hushes. She was too wired and too close to her due day for her to be so agitated. She might just accidentally set off labor.

"Daryl, please wait!" Carol ran up to his bike, breath ragged, and took a hold of the handles. "You can't just go out there."

He knew Carol only meant well. The fear she felt for him was noticeable on her features, but he could not stay put. Even knowing the risks of such a dangerous venture, Daryl still persisted.

"I have to."

They were his family also.

As the bike started down the gravel road, Tyreese's jeep soon followed with Andrea, the Hispanic and Rick inside. Lori had not managed to stop her husband, not even her tears or their son's rational imploration could have. As their leader, he had a duty towards his people. He had taken on that role the moment he proclaimed their group a autocratic state, whether he liked it or not. He would be a poor choice of leader if he balked now when his people needed him most.

With them gone, leadership fell into Hershel's hand. Along with Sasha, Axel, Dale, Maggie and an injured Glenn, they were all the protection the prison had.

They would return, Daryl thought convincingly. With all their people. The others were worrying for nothing.

As they traveled down the dirt road, Axel and Sasha raced on ahead to open the gates. One by one, the vehicles left the inner prison grounds with Daryl leading them on into battle. It will not be easy. If Merle, Samara and Michonne were still bound in Woodbury, they were most likely under careful watch. He did not even want to think of what state they might be in and death was out of the question. He dared not even think of what he'd do if he lost them forever now as he was so close to reuniting.

The first rays of the sun hit him.

Daryl squinted his eyes in the bright glare, but as he reached the two layers of outer fence the trees thickened and the sun hid behind bushy branches. And an altogether different kind of light hit his eyes.

The hunter put the brakes on the motorcycle just shy out of the prison and watched with wide eyes as a foreign car came towards them. The others behind noticed too as they came to a screeching halt and the doors opened with urgency. Sasha and Axel took cover, their guns out. He could hear people running as Hershel shouted orders to take cover.

Even clearly in the car's view, the person behind the wheel did not stop until Rick threatened with his gun.

It could be anyone, the hunter thought. From people unknown to this Governor come to kill them all. Daryl had his crossbow out and aimed as he took no chances. Today was not a good day to surprise him. His anger was still waiting to be unleashed at the slightest notion and what better way to quell his fury but by spilling blood. He almost wished it was the Governor and his men…at least then he would have a reason for indiscriminate bloodshed.

The car turned off its headlights and a head poked out from the driver's side.

Even in the sunny rays of the early morning sun, Daryl could still make out the person. He'd spent a lifetime with this man. It would be naïve of the hunter not to know _him_ just from the shape of that pearly white devil's grin.

"I hope y'all ain't thinkin' of headin' out." Blue eyes a shade darker than Daryl's peered at all of them in turn with darkly cheerful merriment. "It's a _dangerous_ world out there."

Daryl lowered his weapon, his arms going numb. He could not believe it. Here, just a few meters from him, stood the last living family he had left. His big brother was here…They were back together once more, through thick and thin. The Dixon brothers.

Faintly, he heard Rick curse, but right now the others did not matter. There was only him and Merle.

As they looked over each other, the grin fell off Merle's face. He's brother had always been hard to read, but not to Daryl. He had learned over the years to know his brother's moods by just a simple clench of his jaw or a twitch of his lips. When living with a time-bomb like Merle, Daryl had needed all his tricks to survive.

The relief hidden behind that unflinching mask was perceptible to Daryl. After all this time…He was so _glad_ to see him again.

"Good to see you in one piece, baby brother. I've been lookin' for you for a _long_ time."

Daryl nodded almost dazedly. He too had been looking, but without success. He had known Merle was too stubborn to die. Atlanta had not managed to bring him down, instead he seemed stronger than ever before and even _sober_. There was no trace of pills or powder on him—no dazzling eyes, no jagged movements, no wide pupils. Daryl had almost forgotten how normal Merle could seem when untouched by drugs.

The passenger door opened and out jumped another shape, this one too lithe to be male.

"Michonne?"

It was _her_. Michonne with her face cut and swollen, cracked lips; a bruising grip on her katana and a limp to her walk.

Tyreese dropped his rifle and ran. Andrea looked uncomprehending as she stared at her lost friend, but she soon snapped to the present as the woman violently pushed Tyreese away as if his mere touch repulsed her beyond comprehension.

"Michonne?" Tyreese looked lost and extremely wary as the blade's edge pointed at him, keeping him at arm's length.

"I'm _fine_." The woman hissed tersely. "Just… _don't_ touch me."

Merle stepped out of the car just as the others joined them. The ones who had known Merle in Atlanta were left in shock at his sudden reappearance, as did the tension that soon followed from _knowing_ who this man was. The coke head. The liability. The danger. There were barely any friendly faces among them, most of all Glenn.

"What the hell is he doing here?!"

The young Korean shouted as he aimed his gun at the older Dixon, eyes wide in rage. The memories of what the man had done to him were still fresh on his skin, and it would be a long time coming until those particular scars healed.

"Settle down now, Glenn." Rick immediately noticed the danger in the younger man's tense arms and knew he'd shoot at a moment's notice. He did not need an incident like that on his hands, not now. "Put it down."

"He tried to kill me!"

"Is that the kind of welcome I get?" Merle smirked, hiding his uneasiness behind a mask of black humor. "I got your friends out."

"Yeah, right after you beat the shit out of me!"

"Hey, we both took our licks."

Daryl had to intervene as Glenn looked seconds away from pulling the trigger. Standing in the line of his gun, the hunter shielded his brother from Glenn's wrath. As Daryl shouted to the younger man to calm down, Rick took a cautious step forward. Maggie was just behind Glenn, but she would be no help as she seemed even angrier than Glenn, glaring daggers at the man that had inflicted so much pain upon her husband. She looked about ready to strangle him with her bare hands.

During all this commotion, Michonne had opened the backseat door and partially slid inside. Tyreese kept a distance, but he peered curiously inside, attempting to see past the woman.

"Enough!"

"Get that gun out of my face!" Daryl barked severely, hoping that Glenn would snap out of his hysteria.

Glenn looked at both Daryl and Rick and bit his lip harshly. Reluctantly, the Korean lowered his gun as his nostrils flared with anger barely under control. He lowered his gaze, defeated, and surrendered the gun to his leader.

In the wake of all that ragged tension, Merle still had the gal to chuckle like this had all been for his entertainment.

"Man, look like you've gone native, brother."

Daryl scowled displeased. This was not the time for his brother's out of place humor.

"No more than you hangin' out with psychos."

"Oh yeah." He grinned wolfishly as he licked at the crusted blood on his lip. "Gov's a charmer, I got to tell you that."

"Jackass."

"Hershel!" Tyreese's booming voice broke through the rigidity in the air like a blade. "We need help!"

All they could see was Tyreese looking horrified at something Michonne was dragging out of the car.

"Oh yeah…" Merle began, almost amused that he had thoroughly overlooked his other passenger. "Almost forgot. Daryl, I got somethin' in there that belongs to you."

Daryl's heart stopped beating. He could feel his limbs go cold and numb as his breathing boomed in his ears like war horns. His vision blurred until he could only see Michonne as she dragged another shape out of the backseat.

Daryl broke into a run before his brain even realized it. His heart began thundering inside his chest until he thought he would faint. His crossbow fell to the ground as he reached the car and immediately and without gentleness, took _her_ out of the sword-wielder's arms.

The hunter gritted his teeth in grief. Samara was a mess from head to toe. Blood caked her skin while a nauseating palette of color spoiled her russet skin. Half of her face was swollen and her left eye was shut tight. Even her lips were cracked and puffy resembling two fat worms. A sweltering heat emanated from her clammy body and once he touched her glistened forehead, he cursed as a high fever scorched his fingers. And her hand…it was covered in a makeshift bandage, spotted with dark blood while a faint acrid odor wafted from there.

But it was _her_. It was undoubtedly the woman he had been searching for what felt like years. Alive and back in his arms.

—She had found her way back as she always did.

"Samara. Samara! Wake up!"

No response. For a moment, he feared Merle had brought her too late, but the faint rising of her chest gave him a small reprieve. But not her breathing. It was a serrated and abrupt motion and Daryl knew she was struggling for even such a small task as taking in oxygen.

Daryl wanted to howl in rage. She looked so small and broken in his arms, not at all like the fierce, arrogant woman he had known. He feared that even exhaling her way would turn her into dust and scatter her to the wind. This was a pale shadow in comparison.

 _What did they do to you?_

"Samara!"

Her lashes fluttered after a few light taps on her good cheek, but it was to no avail as she slumped back into heavy oblivion. But Daryl would not give up. He needed to hear her husky voice. For her to look at him with those olive eyes he'd come to admire. It didn't matter if she spurred him or embraced him, Daryl just wanted to see her animated, not like this shell he was gazing upon. He needed to know that the Samara he knew was still among them.

A faint whimper escaped her throat.

Daryl held his breath as her one good eye fluttered and then opened halfway. Despite the joy in seeing her look at him, Dayl could see that she did not recognize him. There was a thick film over her eye and Daryl knew the fever was thoroughly ravaging her mind.

It took well over a minute until some light seemed to shed over her mind and moved her gaze.

"Oh, shit…" Samara rasped, barely intelligible. "I'm dead."

Daryl snorted. He wanted to laugh so badly, but held his tongue at bay. It was her. _His_ Samara.

"No." He tenderly stroked her rat's nest of a hair. "No, you ain't."

The hunter embraced her and sunk his face into her hair. No matter that it was slimy and smelled of sweat and dirt, it was _her_ and that was what it all mattered. His grip tightened and Daryl wished to never let go. He feared that if he did, Samara would once again disappear from his side. Daryl could not think he could take another round of that agonizing wait and hopeless search without results. It would be too cruel. He'd had people leave his life without a backwards glance, but he would not let _her_ leave, not without staring him in the face.

He was finally at peace. Daryl felt like coming _home_.

At first, Samara remained rigidly limp in his arms, but soon melted into his embrace, molding herself to his body. Almost as if wishing to disappear into him.

"You're back." Daryl whispered as he kissed her burning forehead. By now, he could see shadows gathering around him, but Daryl did not care that all could see his affectionate gestures. Faintly, he heard Tyreese shout after Michonne and soon his feet carried him after her, but those details were insignificant in the light of Samara's return alive.

It was just him and her now, and no one else.

"Oh gods…" Samara croaked brokenly and Daryl felt tears wet the skin of his neck. "Daryl…alive."

The man gripped tighter, holding her together and safe to his body. The last time they had seen each other, he had swung from the rafters of the supermarket, dying. He too had thought that were to be his end, but fate had something different in store for him. He could only imagine what must have gone through Samara's head after the fact. Had she grieved for him? Had she cried bitter tears? Did she curse her captives and her Native gods in all the languages she knew?

—Did she miss him?

"Daryl," A shadow loomed over him, breaking the hunter out of the spell he had fallen into. Hershel's features were gentle, but there was an urgency about him. "I know you're happy to see each other, but I have to see her injuries."

Reluctantly, Daryl disentangled from her and placed her body gently on the side of the tire. He did not leave her side, even as Hershel poked and prodded her. The older man seemed grave as he studied her right shoulder and applied pressure. Samara sputtered and wailed agonizingly in response, and Hershel's frown deepened. The vet did not like what he saw and it became even worse once he took the bandage off her left hand.

Daryl sucked in a breath, and he faintly heard the people around him gasp and shy away in revulsion and fear. He could not think, could not understand as he stared at the stump where her little finger was supposed to have been.

Those bastard had mutilated her. This was what Glenn had feared revealing.

"I'm gonna kill that son of a bitch!" The hunter exploded, feeling that previous anger return with a bloody vengeance. This was all too much for him. His brother and Samara's return, these new revelations. He could only take so much until his mind shut down and his instincts took over.

How he wished he could _hurt_ someone right now.

"Pipe down, Daryl." Merle said flippantly, grossly inappropriate. "Now ain't the time to go on a revenge trip, 'specially not for some cooze."

His brother shouldn't have said that. He should have just kept his mouth shut, but then he wouldn't be Merle anymore.

Like a cobra, Daryl rose and faced his brother. Merle's laid back stance shifted into rigidity as he noticed the unforeseen cold bloodlust in his sibling's gaze.

As Daryl stepped away from Samara, Andrea took his place and dropped to the ground, with a weeping Alice not far behind. Andre wore her emotions on her sleeve as tears of horror and joy mingled. The sight before her made her want to cringe away. She did not want to believe that this mangled body was Samara, but the truth was staring her right in the face and it took all her willpower to stay strong and face the plight ahead.

Hershel sniffed at the stump and wrinkled his nose.

"An infection set in and she's got a nasty fever." Hershel looked to Andrea, his gaze firm and commanding. There was no time to waste. "We got to get her inside the clinic, right _now_."

Despite being half-blind, half-aware and on the edge of slipping into nothingness once again, Samara still found the power to shake her head. She was not the important factor here. They had a weed among them that needed plucked lest he poisoned them all, and the others needed to know that before she passed out.

"No…No time…Martinez—"

"Did you know about this?" Daryl exploded, not far away. His accusing eyes reserved only for Merle and they were _angry_. "Did you sit back and watch while your boss did this to Samara? To Glenn, to Rick, to Michonne?"

"I had no choice." For once Merle was neither laughing nor smiling. At least now he had the courtesy not to treat his brother like he did everyone else. For once, Merle recognized the threat in front of him with a keen mind.

"Bullshit! You did this to me without anyone telling you to! He set loose a walker on me!" Glenn jumped, more than ready to push Merle into a corner now that he wasn't the only one craving blood. "Then, you brought Samara in so that twisted bastard could dislocate her shoulder, beat her bloody and cut off her finger in front of me!"

"Jesus Christ…" Carol cupped her mouth in nausea. She could almost see the scene right before her eyes.

The others weren't any different as a sea of revulsion, horror and fury greeted the older Dixon. One of the people that had done the damage stood before them alive and healthy, while one of their friends had one foot in the grave. Why hadn't he been put in chains yet? This bastard did not get the privilege to chuckle and grin and curse at them while many of their own were hurt and dying.

Merle would be a fool not to recognize the danger her faced. He might be strong, but even he himself could not go toe to toe with a group of armed people and hope to come out alive. He had to tread carefully through the mine covered field.

"It ain't like I could do anythin' about it. Even if I did, then what?" He shrugged, knowing that at that time there had been nothing to do but wait and watch. "I'd have joined you in that cell. I had to bid my time."

"You fucking liar!" Glenn had to be held back by Maggie. He had worked himself too much in his current fragile state and it could be seen in the trembling of his body. He too was on the verge of shutting down and if it weren't for the farm girl's support, he would have collapsed long ago. "You only helped Samara because you learned that she meant something to Daryl. You left the rest of us there to die!"

Merle tsked. That wasn't exactly a lie. Even if Martinez hadn't freed the others, Merle wouldn't have even entertained the thought of it. The others didn't hold any importance in his eyes, so he would have left them to rot in their cells. But they didn't need to know that.

"Only because I knew that Martinez would get the two of you out! It would've been a waste of time for me to help y'all. So what if you took some damage? You ain't dead." His lips pursed maliciously. "Count yourselves lucky."

"Wait, what do you mean 'you knew' he'd get them out?" Dale asked perplexed, but his question soon ended up swallowed by Glenn's shouts and left forgotten in the midst of the violence to come.

"You son of a bitch—"

This time Maggie failed to hold him back. Glenn used to the last of his strength to jump Merle, but Rick and Daryl descended on the tussling couple right on time. Daryl pushed his brother back while Rick had to physically restrain Glenn.

If there was one thing Merle could do to make matters worse was to laugh, and Daryl cursed him to hell and back for doing just that. A loud guffaw overwhelmed the Korean's curses and harsh yells. Merle could be easily predictable once you knew him, but for once, Daryl wished his brother would surprise him every now and then.

"Oh man, look at this." He spoke between sardonic chortles. The venom in his narrowed eyes betrayed his laughter, though. Merle was _far_ from amused, but that did not mean he was ignorant on how to incense others. "Pathetic! All bark and no bite!"

"Merle, shut up!" Daryl barked back, sick to the bone of hearing Merle talk right now. He was only making matters worse.

"Shut up yourself!" Merle bit back at his younger sibling, displeased by his brother's chosen side. "Bunch of pussies you roll—"

Out of the blue, Michonne appeared like a wraith behind Merle and with the butt of her katana, she executed a well place hit over the back of his head. Merle dropped to the ground like a sack of bricks, finally silent.

The others stared in mute shock at the heavily breathing woman. It had happened so abruptly that no one had been given the time to think through.

"Where's Martinez?"

The sword-wielder spoke through clenched teeth. Her grip on her katana became deathly rigid while her eyes were ablaze with high trepidation.

In the aftermath, everyone seemed to have forgotten of the two new additions to the group. Alice was still with Samara, helping Andrea carry her limp body to the prison, while there seemed to be no sight of Martinez. Instantly aware, everyone searched through the sea of faces, but all they could see was familiarity, not a drop of a stranger.

Daryl's heart plummeted. _No…_

"He was with us not a moment ago." Carl said as he pulled out his gun, anxious of the man's unexpected disappearance.

"We have to find him." Michonne's eyes widened with barely suppressed madness. "Martinez was leading everyone on. He was never going to join us, he just wanted to know the location of the prison. He's going to bring the Governor here!"

Daryl closed his eyes finitely. Even now, they would have no respite. It was just one problem after another…

* * *

He was out of breath, but Martinez persevered. Because he knew stopping would mean his death, and that was not on his list of tasks to do today.

As grass crunched beneath his feet, the Hispanic picked up his speed, racing through the untamed nature growing wildly around him. He had to put as much distance between him and the prison as possible and get a head's start if he wanted to reach Woodbury in one piece.

Now that he had learned the location of the group's home, seen their defenses and counted their numbers, there had been no more reason for Martinez to dawdle. Merle's return had proven to be his best opportunity to make his escape unnoticed while everyone's attention was on the older Dixon and the two he brought along.

Damn the man to hell and back, Martinez thought with disgust. Merle had betrayed them in the end. He had discarded the Governor and everyone in Woodbury in favor of seeking his _beloved_ brother. He should have known that in the end blood ran thicker than friendships, even the ones born out of harsh times. It had not mattered that the Governor had picked his half-dead carcass off the side of the road and nursed him back to help, not even that because of him, Merle had kicked his addiction and made himself a comfortable position in the chain of command in such short time. No…all that mattered had been his brother. Just the mere mention of him had had Merle flee without a second thought, never once looking back.

Martinez _hated_ people like that, willing to switch sides at a moment's notice. Long ago, after he had been corrupted by the doctor to join their folly, he had developed a deep seethed hatred for traitors. The Hispanic swore that once Woodbury marched to war, he personally will bring Merle's head to the Governor.

Stepping out of the forest, Martinez came across a field with half a dozen biters shambling about. They did not worry him. The undead were too distant and far too slow to catch up to his speed.

Once out of the fields, he would have to find a car. No way would Martinez be _running_ to Woodbury. Even for a former gym teacher, he didn't posses Superman levels of endurance or stamina.

Just they wait…These Atlanta people won't stand a chance once the Governor rolled over them.

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_ So, what did you think of the reunion? I hope I didn't make it too sugary sweet, or Daryl too emotional. Although, I do think Daryl is the type to be sensitive once you get behind his heavy defenses. After what life he led, it wouldn't surprise me. I just hope he isn't _overtly_ emotional, because that would just ruin my day.

I'm wondering slightly if I rushed this chapter. Did you get a whiff of that, or is it just me?


	45. Licking Our Wounds

Samara woke up with a gasp.

Her eyes fleeted about as they adjusted, clearing up the fog before her. Her brain felt jumbled while her body was wired, feeling the need to run, but Samara knew it was because of the nightmare. It had been horrible. Enough that she could feel her entire body damp with sweat.

Where was she, she wondered as she looked around at the white walls, but the moment the she inhaled the smell of blood and antiseptics, she knew. The Native groaned in displeasure as her eyes landed on the IV lodged firmly in her one good arm. She was starting to get sick of spending so much time in the medical ward.

A door opened and closed in the distance. Samara lifted her head to spy a blonde woman shuffling along the white and black tile, holding a bunch of medical supplies in her arms. The Native frowned. She knew that plaited blond hair.

"Alice."

The woman in question turned with a startle. She blinked a few times before depositing her cargo on a nearby bed and hurrying towards Samara.

"Don't move." Alice pushed her down until Samara was flat on the mattress. "How are you feelin'? Is your shoulder throbbin'? What about your hand?"

An annoying penlight was shoved into her eyesight and Samara followed it obediently, despite the brightness of it producing tears. Alice suddenly snapped her fingers, steering Samara's attention to her hand.

"You reaction time is good." She smiled in relief. "Much better than yesterday."

"Yesterday?" Samara frowned in thought. "I don't remember."

"Understandable. You were still pretty out of it with the morphine still kickin' through your system."

"Morphine?" Her brows almost lost themselves in her hairline from surprise. "Stevens threatened me with Ibuprofens. When did he change his mind?"

For a moment, Alice's smile remained frozen like some grotesque doll's. But as the realization slowly dawned on her, her features fell into a grim line until Samara shifted in discomfort. Why was she so sad?

"Samara…" Alice started, her voice a dismal whisper. "Don't you know where you are?"

 _Woodbury's clinic…right?_ But as Samara surveyed her surroundings it became increasingly clear that she was _not_ in Woodbury. The scenery felt familiar. It stood on the tip of her tongue. What—

Samara gasped.

It all came rushing up to her. Merle and Michonne. Their escape. And for a brief moment, she had spied a glance of Daryl in the vague corner of her mind.

"I'm back at the prison." Samara could barely believe it, as her body went numb. She felt lightheaded again.

Alice nodded resolutely, driving the stake home.

She was back. Samara wished to cry, but nothing came out of her dry eyes. Her tears had all but left her, depleting their reserves in that dark cell. But Samara was glad. She was back among friendly faces and Daryl…he spoke to her. Hugged her. Felt his warmth. He was real and alive and breathing and—

Samara felt incredibly sad…

"Then…" Her olive orbs observed the blond young woman with an air of curiosity, trying to put away her thoughts of Daryl. It would not do to break down now. "Why are _you_ here?"

"Rick let me and Stevens tag along."

Samara huffed. "I never thought the old man would actually agree to leave, much less let you go. Where is he?"

Alice's gaze dropped to her fidgeting hands. That wasn't a good sign, Samara thought with a frown.

"He didn't make it. A biter got to him just as we left Woodbury. I had to…" She winced in phantom pain. "Give him peace."

 _Damn…We could have used Stevens' knowledge._

"I'm sorry, Alice."

"So am I." She wore a melancholic smile. Stevens had been her mentor, her friend, maybe even a father figure. To lose him, Alice must have felt like losing a part of herself. A constant in this new ugly life. At the moment, she must feel utterly alone, in a strange place with foreign people. The only one aware of her person asleep for most of the time. "I like your people. They seem friendly and I know I'm a stranger to them, and I know after what happened with Martinez they don't have a reason to trust me, but—"

"What happened with Martinez?" Samara interrupted her sharply. Goddammit, she had forgotten all about the Hispanic. She hoped to the gods that it wasn't bad news she was about to hear.

"He ran." Alice crushed her hopes into fine powder. "When Merle brought you and Michonne back, he slipped away in the chaos. When we realized it, Rick sent Merle and his brother to track him down, but they came back empty-handed. Martinez must have found a car on the way. I guess it was too late."

Samara hissed in anger and banged her fist against the mattress. They had failed. They had hurried towards the prison as fast as possible and it had been all for nothing. Even among a group of more than a dozen, Martinez still managed to give them the slip. Bastard must have waited until everyone was in a frenzy with her, Merle and Michonne's arrival. Now Woodbury knew their location. They could paint a large red target on the prison and attack immediately. She just hoped Martinez had shitty luck. That somehow he managed to total the car and a walker got to him before he even managed to leave the burning car. But she knew that was a big _if_.

They had only one element of surprise and now they lost it. They were _fucked_.

"I'm sorry, Samara."

"For what?" Samara drawled, wanting to be back in deep slumber once again. At least then she would be away from these worldly problems. "You're not the one who ran."

But as much as she wanted to ignore everything for the time being, Samara had spent too much time in bed. It was time to act. But the moment she tried, Alice pushed her back.

"You can't get up, not yet. Your injuries still need healin'. Hershel said to keep you confined, whatever the cost."

Samara glared, but one look at her bandaged hand while her other arm was stuffed in a sling and she knew she wasn't going anywhere for the time being. She sighed, despondent.

 _Another round of hospital time-out. Yey…_

"Alice, how're the others?"

"Well…everyone's on edge, even me. They think the Governor will be comin' any moment now, kickin' down the gates. I can't really say they're far from the truth. He _will_ come, especially if Martinez reaches Woodbury alive." She winced once again, this time in fear. "He's not really a forgivin' man."

Samara sneaked a glance at her four fingered hand. She knew all too well.

The young woman caught the look and bit her lip in trepidation.

"I'm sorry for what he did to you." She whispered, sincere in her regret.

"Stop apologizing." Samara did not want her pity. She was through being the victim. It was time to reclaim control. "You didn't do this. You had no idea."

Her sulk deepened. "I just feel like someone should."

Samara sighed. The Native did not need Alice to catch a whiff of the blues. She had to endure. To stay strong in the face of adversity. She and Hershel were her only medics, after all. "The only thing I want to hear, Alice, is the Governor drowning in his own blood. That will make me _extremely_ happy."

The young woman gulped.

"How's my body?"

Beside her arms and face, Samara had no idea what other injuries she sustained. Her trip to the prison was at best a blur. Only small snippets were clear in her mind—Michonne return one of them.

"The fever's gone and you didn't lose the hand, thank God. Another day without treatment and we would've been forced to saw it off. Hershel said your dislocated arm will heal with time, but you're gonna experience discomfort for longer than that."

"That's alright. I'm already used to discomfort." The aches in her back had been a constant companion throughout her venture into Woodbury. "One other body part won't matter."

"Your swellin' has cleared, but give it another week 'till the bruises disappear completely."

"My friends? What about them? Rick and Glenn and Michonne?" Especially Michonne. Did someone check up on her?

"Rick's alright aside from his hand. The Governor cut through some nerves so it'll be harder for him to use it. He can't clench it properly. Glenn's nose was broken and he lost a tooth. He had some internal bleedin', but Hershel fixed him up. And Michonne…" Alice fidgeted uneasily, and Samara realized the young woman knew. "She-she wouldn't let Hershel touch her. I had to treat her and—"

"I know what happened." She spared the young blond from voicing the details of the grisly affair. "Where is she?"

Knowing Michonne, she probably hid somewhere to work out alone on her despair.

Alice shook her head. "I haven't seen her in two days. She's keepin' away from everybody. Barely eats anythin', doesn't talk. Your friend, Andrea, tried, but still…"

Samara wasn't even surprised. Michonne was more used to solving her problems in silence than accepting help from others. Her pride would not allow her to share what befell her in Woodbury with everyone. The less knew, the better.

"She'll come back to us when she's ready. It wouldn't do her any good if we forced her." She had to figure out the answer on her own. Finding peace after such a trauma was not so easy to achieve. For some it took a lifetime, for others days, weeks. Samara just hoped her friend wouldn't crack from the pressure. "Does everyone know?"

"Hershel, Daryl, Rick and you. Rick doesn't want this spread. He doesn't want people to pity Michonne or act strangely. She's suffered enough as is."

"Good." At least he understood that.

"I just can't believe the Governor would do that." Alice whispered with a far away tone. Her mind was elsewhere as she contemplated those ruthless actions. "I know he's a brutal and cruel man, but even this goes beyond my understanding of him. He never seemed like the type—"

"—to rape? No, he doesn't, does he?" He gave off a more well-mannered, kind man appearance. But underneath all that shine and polish, he was rotten to the core. "I think that once you lose that part of yourself that makes you human, when you don't have anything to hold you back, you're just about capable of anything. Murder, theft, rape. It's all just a power play to him."

There was no emotion behind the man. There was only his dominance over everyone he encountered. Absolute control with no room for question. When he had transformed himself into this monster was unknown to her, or perhaps he had always been like this, just waiting for the time to strike. This apocalypse giving him the motive to loose all inhibition.

"They brought your friend back to bury him." Alice interrupted her musings. "The funeral was yesterday."

"Which one?" _Did someone die?_

"The one that died far away from here. Otto, I think his name was."

"Oscar." She had hoped she could go herself and bring him back. It was the respectful thing to do, but at least the man was finally put to rest. But that begged another question—"Yesterday…How long have I been asleep?"

"This is the fourth day."

That was too long, even for a fever. The old man must have sedated her knowing she would try to leave her bed as soon as she woke up. Yet, everyone else had been checked off as healthy even if they too had suffered injuries.

That reminded her—

"Alice…Where's Merle?"

"Rick had him confined to a cell. He won't let him walk freely, not after his outburst and Martinez's disappearance."

At least Rick had the sense to put the older Dixon away. Merle was still a danger, even if he was reunited with his brother.

"Then why are you free?"

"I wasn't until three days ago. Rick didn't trust me either, but managed to convince him. Said he needed my knowledge to help him around with the injured." Her brows furrowed as her fingers fiddled. "I can't really say I was that much help. I'm not a doctor."

"Well, neither is he, but you can't be picky these days."

"Samara, I'm scared." Alice whispered as her hands clutched at her sleeves until her knuckles turned white " _He's_ gonna come and he's gonna bring all of Woodbury and all the guns and ammunition they can carry. I know the man. He's not gonna listen if we try to bargain. He'll just tear down the gates and capture the ones he means to punish for disobedience and kill the others while those alive have to wat—"

"Alice. Stop. You're going to have a fit." She was starting to get on Samara's nerves with her hyperventilating. The Native just woke up. She didn't need the girl's fears shoved down her throat. The least she could do was wait until after she ate. "Even if he does come, the Governor doesn't know us. We're few, but we're stronger than we seem. This prison is a maze and we're the ones who know it by heart. They don't. When they come, let them tear down the fences. Let them come inside. Only death will great them."

This was their territory. They had the advantage here. The fight could not be taken to Woodbury, whatever the reason. Otherwise, they would perish.

Alice tried to keep her nerves calm with a few deep breaths, but her body was too riled up. Even her mind was erratic, jumping from one scenario to the next. Samara could see the coflict eating at her insides and could almost pity the girl. She was probably just a fly in the Governor's view and he would swat her away as one if he ever got his hands on her.

"Regret leaving?"

Alice bit her lip, but ultimately she shook her head.

"I've been dreamin' of this moment for a long time. I didn't think would die, but not everythin' goes as planned, does it? I'm _glad_ I escaped, Samara, but I'm also afraid of the consequences."

Understandable. There was no good without evil. Leaving Woodbury would have its consequences, especially since Stevens and Alice had been its only doctors. The Governor was probably feeling that on his own skin by now if he was still alive.

"You can leave anytime you want." She wasn't being forced to stay with them. If she'd been Alice, she'd take the first car in sight and drive away as fast as possible.

"And go where? Do what?" She looked small and miserable, not like the spunky thing Samara remembered. "I'm not even twenty-three years old and I have no idea how to survive out there. I'm a house cat, not a wild one. I think…I'd rather take my chances here."

A gamble. Who knew what the future had in store for the prison and its people. They might not make it to see next month. But one thing was certain—the stench of blood was upon them. It was time to take up arms once again.

"Your choice."

* * *

Milton climbed the darkened stairwell, his goal the apartment above the empty building.

These past few days had been a trial for the soft-spoken man. Panic was afoot in Woodbury. People were scared and no answer could be given to appease their worried souls. Milton himself had none no matter how many times they asked him per day. His answer would always be the same—Be patient. Don't panic. You'll know soon enough.

Truth was, he himself was close to entering an extremely agitated state. Samara and her companions had escaped and Merle along with them. Martinez had returned, almost a day later, telling everyone that he had escaped their clutches. But not Alice and Stevens. They too, apparently had been kidnapped with no certainty as to their fates.

Kidnapped…Why did he doubt that?

Milton had tried to extract the truth from Martinez, but the man simply said to ask the Governor. That would have been easy to do if the man would actually _speak_. Philip seemed to have isolated himself from everybody, confining himself to his apartment and receiving no visitors except for Milton. But even with this freedom, it was like Milton wasn't even there. He was a ghost.

 _Dark times are coming_ , Milton thought. He felt it deep in his heart.

Opening the door, Milton announced his presence. A courteous gesture, not that Philip would actually respond to it. The man in question was sleeping. A first since his… _grievances_. The man had taken to insomnia following the events of that fateful night.

In his grip, Milton spied a bit of turquoise and knew with unease what it was. Philip would sometimes brood with Samara's necklace tightly clutched in his fist. Every now and then, Milton would discover more teeth snapped in half.

He would not inspect the bandages yet. It was wise not to disturb a slumbering giant. Philip had become rather grim as of late and might just accidentally kill someone on reflex. Besides, Milton would not be so cruel as to wake him just when he finally was able to shut his eyes.

Since there were no doctors left in Woodbury with Stevens and Alice's departure, the role of doctor had been passed onto Milton. Unfortunately, he only had some knowledge of medicine and surgery, and most of it was just from books.

Five days ago he had been woken in the middle of the night to attend to the Governor. He could still remember the bloody sight he had been met with upon arriving in the clinic. Could still remember the sort of injuries the man had sustained and even now Milton wanted to hurl. He had been tortured, plain and simple, and Milton did not have the stomach for such nefarious affairs. Cutting up the dead he could handle, but the living was another matter entirely.

In the days after, he had wondered who had done it. Had it been Samara or the other woman? Milton had done some research and learned everything the Governor had done while he had moped about in his apartment, ignorant of the world outside. He felt so stupid now. If he had been half a man, he should have listened to Samara and left the apartment that day. Maybe everything wouldn't have turned out so horribly. Perhaps he could have stopped Philip from lashing out in anger at the black woman and he could have spared Samara from being tortured so brutally. He could not forgive himself for his cowardice, but he was here now and until Philip came out of his shell, he'll do his best to fill in his shoes.

"Philip…" Milton's brow furrowed in dismay. "What did you do?"

He recalled the moment he entered the Governor's apartment and what he had found behind closed doors. It still gave him the shivers. Biter heads in tanks, those that had not degraded he recognized as people used in the arena and some that had been killed on runs. Shumpert had admitted to knowing about this and Milton felt betrayed, as well as sickened. How could the Governor have done this?

As for Penny…Poor thing. He felt saddened for her death. Philip had cherished her more than his own life. Enough that even in death he could not part from her. Half the reason for Milton's studies on bringing people back from undeath was because of her. Because Philip had asked him to. He had done it out of friendship, but now all was lost. He just hoped Penny found her peace.

As for Philip…Milton could not forgive him for what he had done. He had crossed a line that could not be overlooked, no matter how hard one tried to remain ignorant. What was Milton supposed to think now? Were Stevens' accusations true? Were they being led by a madman? Philip had his moments of anger, but so did everyone else. Not everyone is _that_ violent, a whisper that suspiciously sounded like Stevens passed by his ears and Milton grimaced. True, the Governor could get intense, but underneath it all he was still human. He just had so many problems on his mind that perhaps force was the only way for him to let off some steam. But still…the doubts wouldn't leave his heart. In fact, it just clenched it further. His friend…had he been a wolf in sheep's clothing all this time? Was everything else a lie?

Milton was at a loss.

He wished Philip would talk. Milton was no leader, he was the one that followed. He did not know how to command and neither did he have the presence for it. When he spoke, he mumbled and his words fell on deaf ears. He could barely raise his voice above normal. And he looked so plain that people barely even noticed him until they bumped into him. But what will Philip do once clearheaded?

Stupid question. Milton knew. War would happen. More bloodshed, and corpses upon corpses would line this prison they would go to, either with their people or Samara's or both. In the end, there will be blood and Milton did not know if he could handle it. They had lost enough already. Hadn't there been enough death?

 _Please, God. Don't let it come to that._

If Samara was as smart as he thought her to be, she would get everyone and leave and never come back. Then, Governor would have no reason to kill. This prison was just a building. It meant nothing in the end. Weren't their lives more important?

 _Please, Samara. Leave this state with your people. For all our sake._

* * *

Samara was awake, her mind lost in the whiteness of the ceiling. She had no taste for slumber anymore, not after being immersed into an awful nightmare with a shadow man tearing her apart limb by limb. She didn't need an IQ to know who that had been.

It was almost dusk. Hershel had come shortly after she woke up and changed her bandages. Hershel informed her in hushed whispers that Rick was keeping everyone busy. The Kentucky man was preparing for battle and it didn't look good. Samara had tried to learn more, but Hershel was adamant in her not agitating herself, at least for another day.

Once she was left to her own devices, Samara had seen neither hair or tail of the others. Hershel had said that it was better if Samara was left to rest, and must have shooed away anyone curious enough to approach. For once, she was grateful towards the old vet. Samara herself had no wish to see a familiar face just yet. She was still coming to terms with the fact that she only had four fingers on her left hand.

Samara wiggled her fingers once again and was still amazed that she could feel her pinky in place, waggling along. Hershel had told her that she'll get used to the impression. Even he himself still had phantom sensations in his leg after the many months since it was chopped off. It was strange, but she just had to remember that her finger was, in fact, gone and not stub her stump on anything hard. The wound still ached and at times, throbbed mightily, making Samara sweat bullets. And on the other side, her formerly dislocated arm sometimes gave her grief, and always suspiciously in combination with the hand's soreness. Hershel was adamant in not giving her anymore morphine and left her with light painkillers. The Native could already feel her body craving more as it tried to adapt to its loss. In the end, it was a horrible combination that left Samara wide awake and drowning in her own gloomy thoughts.

The door opened and Samara groaned in despair once she saw her sly visitor. She had wondered how long it would take before _he_ appeared. Her heart beat loud enough to wake the dead and Samara felt faint again, but she had to be strong. She could not balk in the face of him.

Daryl slithered into the seat by her bed. He looked the same as when she last saw him in that supermarket, although he now sported a new addition on his neck—a scar of a rope. Samara felt her mouth dry at the ugliness of it. No doubt with time it will fade until it was only a dark patch of skin, but for now it was visible and puckered. Samara did not want to look upon it as it woke black memories she'd rather keep forgotten.

Both sensed the tension. It felt like a pregnant object was wedged between the two of them. It was just like them to be near each other at last, only to pull back at the final moment. Like wounded animals, they recoiled, fearing the other's bite.

Samara licked the edge of her lips. She hated these uncomfortable silences that Daryl could conjure out of thin air, but she was not as awkward as the Georgia man to settle into stone.

"Daryl—"

"Did he touch you?" Daryl cut through her words, his voice both menacing and hesitant. "Did he hurt you like he did Michonne? Did that son of a bitch ra—"

"No. I wasn't of interest to him. Not in that way." At least now she understood his reluctance in seeing her. He had been afraid of what answer she'd give him. "I was his boxing bag, no more than that."

Daryl visibly deflated as he slumped in his chair, all the tension leaving him at once. He seemed so exhausted. His cheeks seemed more sunken and the bags underneath his eyes more prominent. Michonne had informed her that Daryl had been adamant in finding her, to the point of starvation and it was showing. Another reason for Samara's heart to sink further.

"Have you seen Michonne?"

He shook his head slowly. "Not today."

"Dammit!"

This was the third person that had no idea of Michonne and it was starting to grate on her nerves. As a group, shouldn't they be watching out for each other? At least, just to make sure that they were alright.

Having enough of her confinement, Samara pushed away the sheet with her bandaged hand, never mind that her stump throbbed with the movement. But the strudy wall known as Daryl kept her on her back before she even attempted rising one inch off the bed.

"Hershel said you can't get out yet."

"Like I give a damn what Hershel says." She wiggled underneath the palm on her clavicle. "I have to go look for her."

"No, you need to stay here and rest." Pressure was applied and it was all it took to make Samara snap.

"Don't you—!"

"Yes, I am!" Daryl barked back, his hand now as heavy as a boulder. "You barely got rid of the fever. You lost blood. Your shoulder is still messed up. You _need_ to recuperate."

"I can't just stay put! I need to do something!"

She needed to be her old self again. She had to walk the grounds with a gun in hand. She hadn't held a proper weapon in over three weeks and her fingers were just aching for one. She needed to learn how to shoot with her left hand for the duration her right arm was in a sling. And her missing finger…the Native now had to adjust herself to the loss and she couldn't do all that sitting here in this place filled with the stink of death and sanitary alcohol. She had enough of hospitals. She wanted out.

"Samara…Stay. Here." Daryl gritted his teeth loud enough that Samara heard it. He was on the verge of losing his patience. "If I have to tie you to this bed, I will. Don't test me."

"Don't tell me what to do, Daryl!"

"Yes, I will, 'cause right now you're actin' like a brat!" He exploded, his rage no longer able to be contained. "Sit back and stop bein' so stubborn. You wanna help, then start gettin' better. You ain't good to no one like this!"

Samara pushed his hand away and moved her face to the side, not wishing to see him any longer. This way, she could also mask the tightly pressed wince on her lips as she earlier pushed him with her bandaged hand. Hershel had been right. If she forgot that she was missing an appendage, now more than ever, there would be hell to pay.

"I ain't tellin' you this because I'm bein' an asshole. I just…don't wanna see you hurt anymore."

If only he knew how much his words cut her. Deeper than any injury could. Deeper than this pain in her hand.

Strong fingers wove around her bandaged hand and Samara felt her breath leave her. _No. Let go of my hand._

"I thought I lost you…" He looked over her hand with a heavy frown and Samara could feel his resentment and sorrow fanning off him like wildfire. "I've been searchin' for you for weeks. When we found the farm house, I thought that was it. That you'd be brought here and that I'll get to save you, but it didn't happen. Nobody came. I didn't know what to do anymore, so I just picked a direction. All the while, I could feel myself losin' hope until eventually, because of _me_ , the others disappeared. I felt like such an idiot…I just made everythin' worse."

Delicately, much more than she remembered, Daryl caressed the stump. Even the ache in her hand seemed to diminish with his gentleness. His teeth sank in his lower lip hard enough to draw blood.

"This should've never happened." His eyes glared daggers on her missing finger. "Fucking dipshit! I let this happen!"

"Daryl, don't." Samara could barely have gotten the words past her constricted throat. It felt hot. A fire burned inside her and not the kind she liked. This one was all consuming and wretched, forcing her into a corner. She would die if she did not escape it, she knew it.

"I should've never got us in that buildin'!" He continued not even hearing her. All his attention was concentrated on her missing finger. Someone had dared butcher a part of her like she was nothing more than a piece of meat. He wanted to howl and tear the walls down in anger. This was not how he was supposed to find her. "I knew somethin' was wrong, but I ignored it like an fuckin' idiot! I led us straight into a trap! The _great_ fuckin' hunter!"

"Stop…"

"And look at you now! You're missin' a finger! Your black and blue all over, and the others…" His eyes were wide and Samara could see he was lost in the tides of rage. "Goddamn, Michonne—"

She slapped him. Not hard as she would have liked, but mild as her strength had not recovered yet. Oh, how she regretted that. Samara had to call upon all her self-control and the mercy of her silent gods not to let the pain show on her face. Just a moment ago she had contemplated not further using her incapacitated hand when in a moment of anger she forgot and done the exact opposite. The pain was blinding, letting her see white, blinking stars. But she used that pain and channeled it into her own rage.

"Stop, you dumb hick!"

Daryl paused and some normalcy seemed to return to his feverish blues.

"It _wasn't_ your fault!" She hissed, cross with his presumptions. "How the hell could you believe that? You bastard, you don't get to say that. If it's your fault then it's just as mine also! _I'm_ the one that kept you all from going about your lives."

"It ain't your—"

"See what I mean?" Neither wanted to admit, that in the broad picture, they had no fault. The fault lied with the people that had captured them and their neighbor beyond the Yellow Jacket Creek. "Do you think I wanted this to happen? It's neither our faults Daryl, but if you want to blame someone, blame the Governor. Hate him. Curse him. He's the one that needs to be punished, not us! So save your strength for when he comes, because I plan to. He'll wish he'd never set his eyes on us!"

Daryl stared at her intensely. Her anger was familiar, as well as that threatening nature. She was really back.

Callous fingers cupped Samara's cheek and before the woman could even realize what was happening, his lips descended upon her. Samara whimpered. It felt so good and so wrong at the same time. Like a puddle of water in a desert, she wanted nothing more than to relish in it. To drink until there wasn't even a drop left, but if she did, she'd fall under his spell. Those rough hands that knew how to satisfy her in more ways than one. They could be fierce, leaving bruises in their wake, but they could also be gentle enough to make Samara squirm. She wanted those hands to stroke and command her flesh. For those lips to bite and suck at her skin and kiss every part of her body, but this was not the time for her wanton mind to go rampant. She would have never believed that three weeks on the dry would leave her such a ball of zealous desire.

His warmth was so inviting, Samara wanted to melt in it, but if she did that she would be lost to him. Everything was just too fresh on her skin and her mind was still in a daze, susceptible to outside incentive. As much as her body wanted to let him do as he pleased, her brain put a stop to those urges with a hard dose of reality crashing over her head.

She wretched her lips away.

" _Don't_ do that."

"The others know. Don't matter if we're seen."

"They do?" Samara looked horrified, but that was not her priority. It seemed Daryl had not understood her reluctance. "Doesn't matter. Don't kiss me again, please."

Samara could not handle him right now. Not his warmth or his affection. Could not barely even look at him because every time she did, flashes of his veins bulging and his skin turning blue ruined her image of him alive and well. The Native was slowly but surely breaking inside and she wanted him gone so her dignity could remain intact. Hershel had been right. She was not ready to face the others yet.

"Samara, what's wro—"

"Please, just go." She cut him short, abrupt and unsympathetic.

"Samara—"

His feather touch had Samara recoil as if burnt. If he put his hands on her again, she wouldn't be able to hold herself back anymore.

"Get away from me, dammit!" She snapped wildly, bearing her teeth in aggression. "Don't touch me!"

Her raised voice brought Alice from out of the ward's office and her fear showed as her gaze landed on Daryl brother. She was accustomed to Merle. The blond must think his brother was the same and so uneasiness kept her at a distance, uncertain what to do.

Goddammit, she did not need an audience to this messy affair.

"Please, Daryl." She hissed between clenched teeth, wishing he would just listen for once. "Leave."

Daryl stared, stone faced. Even his blues seemed to have taken an arctic hue as they regarded her without a show of the thoughts behind. He moved his stiff limbs as he rose from the chair and left without a backward glance. Samara could only let the breath she had been holding loose once the door closed firmly behind him.

She wanted to hide her face. To crawl into a ball in a dark place and never return from there. She felt like a horrible person but it had to be done. She could not have him around her yet. The memories were too raw on her mind. Ever since she caught a glimpse of him in her feverish state, flashes of his supposed death haunted her at every turn. Sometimes the images would alter, giving Daryl an even more gruesome death. Samara had tried sleeping, but another set of nightmares awaited her there and as such, only had the white walls as solace.

A scuttle on cracked tile.

"Are you alright? Should I call ?"

"No, don't." Samara sighed as she felt wearier than time itself. "Just...leave me alone."

Despite her reluctance, Alice listened.

Samara let her melancholy show, now that she was alone. Words could not explain how happy she was to see him again, to feel his touch, but she could not have him near. Just the notion of his presence had Samara want to dry heave. The Native wondered if there was a word for experiencing exulting joy, damning anger and unabashed fear at the same time. Such a contradictory state that left her in more emotional pain that necessary. He was alive and breathing and she could not handle that. Could not handle the reality of her feelings in the wake of her past grief and its significance.

Samara just wanted to sleep, but even that she was scared of doing.

* * *

The cigarette burned in the dimness of his cell. There was nothing else to do than smoke and sleep. Except for his brother and Rick, nobody else came to talk to him. Suited him fine. He didn't need them poking about like he was some zoo animal for their viewing pleasure. He just wish his brother had left him some alcohol. He didn't believe him when he said the prison was free of it. Daryl had to have stashed some somewhere.

Five days spent in such a confined space had Merle's thoughts walk down memory lane. He'd been locked up before and the imprint left behind was felt now more than ever. He'd never thought he'd end up behind bars again, but life and that bitch called karma had a queer sense of humor.

Who would've thought that a prison was the sheriff's hiding hole? Of course he'd known about this place. He'd scouted the prison last autumn and came to the conclusion that it was unattainable. Too many biters and who knew what awaited inside, but lo and behold, a small group had managed what he and seventy people behind him couldn't have. Funny life this…He would have to ask Daryl how he'd accomplished it.

The ember burned brightly as Merle took a drag.

The Atlanta group...Some of them were familiar while others puzzled him. Andrea, Lori and her brat, Dale, even meek Carol—they were what was left of the Atlanta group along with Rick, Glenn and Daryl…and him. It seemed the squaw had lied when it came to T-Dog, as if that was something new. The man had apparently died months ago saving good, old Carol from being bitten. The rest were strangers, but Daryl had spoken about them. About the farmer and his daughters. How they had sheltered the group weeks after leaving Atlanta. On the road they had picked up Samara, apparently an acquaintance of Rick's before he was reunited with his family. The other siblings of the prison were added to the group after the farm burned down, and the inmate was found along with other survivors in this very building. He was the only one to still left alive.

A ragtag group at best, but Merle could tell that they were tight-knit, and to his displeasure, those threads intertwined around Daryl's body like seaweed, particularly clingy. He might just need to sever them with a sturdy axe if he wanted a chance to get his brother back.

All in all, his brother made himself quite a comfy place here. They had security and provisions, but that did not mean that those high fences can't be brought down. This prison was a good enough place to keep the geeks at bay, but not people. Merle had already counted half a dozen weak spots that he could exploit if he ever entertained the thought of conquering the prison. The Governor will think the same.

Merle was in a dilemma—once he got his brother out of Rick and Samara's clutches, what will he do? There was no way he could return to Woodbury, not after the samurai woman had done god knows what to the man. He'd have better chances of surviving on the road than he did stepping foot in Woodbury again. He'd known his chances were slim ever since he decided on springing Samara out of her cell. It seemed that Georgia's vastness was his only path.

Footsteps in the distance.

Merle rose up to a sitting position, already aware of his visitor. He knew that brisk and silent walk.

His brother appeared behind the bars of his cell, a heavy frown on his forehead. Merle extinguished his cigarette underneath his boot, curious of his Daryl's foul mood.

 _What got his panties in a bunch, I wonder._

"We're gonna vote tomorrow mornin'. About what to do with you."

Merle nodded. Not like he could do anything about it with him locked up in here.

"What's up with you, brother? You're more stretched thin than a wire."

Daryl only shook his head, but Merle's eyes were sharp. He caught the minute wretchedness combined with frustration that passed his features and Merle scowled. It seemed the squaw was awake.

"That bitch do somethin'?" Vulgar and to the point, he held back no punches.

Daryl's glare was scathing. "Don't call her that."

Ever since he came here, Merle had tried to gouge the extent of Daryl's _fondness_ for the woman. He needed to know just how easy or difficult it would be to steer Daryl away from her. Merle had no intention of living in this place. He had felt the hostility the moment he stepped out of the car, burning his skin like lasers. He was not welcome here, no more than a walker was. But he would not leave without his brother. They had found each other after almost a year against all odds. He wasn't about to lose him again. The only problem was the squaw, and from what he could see, it would not be an easy task recovering his brother.

"Oh, brother…What have you gotten yourself into?" Merle leaned his metal arm on the bars, his eyes glinting in the semi darkness. "She more to you than a lay, ain't she? Yeah…You don't act like this unless you respect her, or at least like her enough. You were always too softhearted."

Daryl said nothing, but just by avoiding Merle's potent stare, the older Dixon had his answer and he loathed it.

"Merle, I know I didn't say this outloud, but…thanks for savin' her and Michonne."

"You're welcome, baby bro." Finally, a bit of gratitude. No one had said a word about his good deed, not even a whisper. As if Pocahontas and the Nubian Queen just strolled right in without any help.

Daryl's eyes sharpened like jagged diamonds. "But that don't excuse what you did to Glenn. What you let happen to the others."

Merle scoffed. In the end, it came down to that. They saw only the bad and not the good. "I ain't gonna apologize for that. The chink was bein' stubborn. He should have just told me where you were and then neither of those shiners would've happened."

"Bullshit." Daryl spat. "You would've kept on hurtin' them for your own revenge. He and Rick were the ones that left you behind, after all."

Merle's eyes flattened like a still pond. He did not like this relentless attack on him. What happened, happened. C'est la fucking vie. Merle had been in no position to do other than what the Governor ordered him to do…Yes, he did enjoy it a bit, but he had good reason to. What he did not need was his younger brother chiding him like he'd eaten desert before dinner.

"About that…Why the hell are you still with these people, huh? They leave your brother out to die and you just say 'it's alright' and keep on livin' with them?" Merle snarled, his white teeth showing. "How about some fuckin' loyalty, _brother_."

"I went back after you! We all did—Rick and T-Dog and me. But once we got there all we found was your hand and a trail of blood leadin' into Atlanta. What was I supposed to do? Where was I suppose to even start lookin'? So, yeah. I stuck with the group. I had nowhere else to go. And in the end it turned out alright. If I hadn't, we would have never met again."

Merle spat, unwilling to hear his brother's excuses. He should have searched for him to Hell and back. While he was lying on the side of the road dying from blood loss, Daryl was on merry way towards that farm with the others, safe and sound. How was that for fairness?

Perhaps if Daryl had tried harder, he would have found him. They could have been scouring Georgia all this time, never once seeing the Atlanta group again or Woodbury. Just the two of them, like it always should have been. But no. Daryl had decided to stick to others and in the process, met that squaw.

"Where does that bi—woman come in?" He corrected himself, for once trying not to insult his brother's woman, although he had a few choice words with which he could describe her. "What's she to you?"

"It's complicated."

Merle watched him closely. Complicated it might be, but Daryl already had a answer in his mind. His brother was hard to read, but not to Merle. In that regard, he was an open book.

"Bullshit. You _know_. Goddammit, Daryl!" He hit the iron bars, making the hinges clutter and squeak. "What did I tell you all these years? Gettin' attached to a woman's gonna bring only disaster. They ain't worth the effort, especially now. The only thing you need is family, because in the end, if that Indian is ever given the choice between herself and you, she'll always choose herself."

"You don't know that." Daryl protested, a heavy frown marring his features.

"Oh, but I do. I know her type." That was plain for Merle to see. She was a survivor, like himself. "They ain't nothin' but snakes, never to be trusted."

But unlike her, Merle had his brother and he would take a bullet for Daryl. He was the oldest. He had to protect his little brother, at all costs. Even from vipers.

"She ain't exactly a saint, but I trust her with my life."

"Then you're an idiot!" Merle banged against the bars one more time, his frustration rising. Why wasn't his brother hearing him? "That bitch will toss you away the moment she's done with you and I'll be damned if I let you die for some snatch!"

Daryl's glare strengthened. It had a menacing edge to it, like a dog ready to bite. "Watch it, Merle."

Merle laughed scornfully, his voice bouncing off the empty cell block. How naïve his brother could be. He'd seen this behavior before in other men. Brought to their knees by a pretty face with long legs, but that same pretty little bird, once she'd bled him dry, will move on without a second glance, and who'll be the fool then?

"Hot damn, she got you good!" Merle grinned scornfully. "What was it that mesmerized you? Can't be her personality cause she's got a shitty one. Does she give great head? Is her pussy as tight as a virgin's?"

"Merle…" Daryl pursed his lips. He kept himself calm, knowing that his brother was just trying to aggravate him. Merle had always known how to anger Daryl, hitting his weakest points, but he won't respond to it with violence like he used to. Merle still thought he was dealing with that boy that was his shadow, but Daryl had grown out of it and now cast his own. "I know you're my brother, but that don't mean I ain't afraid of knockin' your teeth out. Talk about her like that one more time and you're gonna wish you never saw me again."

This time, Merle's grin fell into a thin line. His blue orbs, so similar to his, regarded him differently. That had not been the response he had anticipated. Daryl expressed himself more with actions than words. He had not been the type to warn first before pouncing. He'd go straight for the jugular. And to Merle's surprise, he barely even angered his younger brother. The emotion was there, but not the will to act upon it.

"You've changed." It was visible now more than ever. What had these people done to him? This was not the Daryl he knew.

"I ain't that boy you used to have under your control anymore. I found my own path and you need to accept that." Daryl breathed coolly before straightening, seemingly more taller than his older brother. "Now, I'm gonna talk on your part again. Have you released. I can't have you rottin' away in this cell, nor can I have you kicked out. Just wait for me. By tomorrow mornin', I'll have you out."

Merle watched with a sour expression as Daryl's form disappeared from his vision. He did not want to believe it. That his brother did not need him anymore. No, it was just a trick of the light. That bitch had laid some red skin magic on him before he came here and that was why Daryl was so serious. Dammit…Bringing that woman back had been a mistake. Maybe it would have been better if she had somehow tripped and broken her neck in the forest. Daryl would have gotten over it with time, and they'd be long gone from here by now.

But Merle had made his bed and now he had to lie in it, but that didn't mean he had to like it.

* * *

A figure sat in the pews next to the baseball field. It's hunched form was a black dot in the distant sunset, mumbling words that could only be deciphered up close.

 _It was uncalled for. That's all I'm saying._

The male voice floated about in her mind, stern but with a hint of alarm. Michonne listened to their words patiently, as she always did. Their counsel would prove helpful at times.

 _He_ did _deserve it. I absolutely know that. I just wasn't prepared to see—I mean, what you did to him was…You may have gone too far._

The other male voice quipped, this one lower and more thicker than the former, and Michonne grimaced. They had both seen the horrors she had inflicted, from within the shadows of her mind. Watched while she maimed and butchered, never once uttering a word of encouragement or deterrence. Even if, Michonne had been lost to the outside at that moment. Her world had become that tiny room with her devil kneeling at her feet, and no one would have been able to break her out of that illusion.

But she was in the real world now, and the nightmare that had been Woodbury was finally starting to dawn on her. Michonne's stay there had been a daze. Her mind had retreated far away, leaving only her instincts to guide her body by. Slowly but surely, reason began to dig itself from the deep hole it had hidden in and the consequences tumbled after.

"A little, yes." She would have done more if she had been given the time. A prospect she still regretted even today. "After I composed myself, after I thought about it, it seemed that I crossed a line. But then, I remembered all that he did to me, and my actions seemed far too few compared to his own. It was satisfying, I'm not going to lie."

 _I've just never seen that side of you is all. It was…unsettling._

Michonne nodded understandingly, her gaze distant. Her eyes did not even reach the sun as it displayed its last rays across the darkening world.

She had scared herself in that moment. Enough that she wept in fear of what other horrors she could instill upon his broken and bloodied body. Somehow, she thanked the man that had knocked on the door, disturbing her torture fest. Some things were better left obscure. For her mental health more than anything.

But as Michonne continued to debate, she did not notice the woman burning holes in her back. Andrea watched in apprehension as her friend continued talking to herself, oblivious to her silent spectator.

* * *

Samara woke with a startle. Once again, a nightmare had graced her this evening. This one more horrible than the last. She had not been the Governor's target this time, but Daryl. Her mind was perverse in showing her those horrors. She already had her head full of fears and terrors, she had not needed to see Daryl broken as well.

"Sorry, did I wake you?"

The Native almost jumped out of her skin. In the darkness, she could see a shape lounging in the chair beside her bed. In the dimness of the room, she could not have told who the person was, but that twang in his voice was a dead giveaway.

"No." Samara exhaled harshly as she tried to calm her agitated heart. Rick had a knack for appearing before her in the dark, especially when she was in her sick bed. "What are you doing here?"

It wasn't even near first light as she peered through the barred windows.

"I just couldn't sleep." Samara could hear the exhaustion in his voice and knew that his face would be no less wary. Woodbury had worn them all down, despite the trip only being there two days.

"Bad dreams?"

"Somethin' like that." He massaged his face as his elbows settled on his knees. "The Tombs are overrun. You remember I told you when you first came here that we locked some walkers deep in the prison? They got out somehow. I'll need to go down there with a few others to take care of them. I think we got a breach somewhere because there were more than I remembered."

Samara chuckled flatly. "One problem after another, huh?"

"Yeah…"

Despite the grimness of their situation, Rick still had some joy left in him. His blue orbs warmed once they settled over her, oblivious to her bandages and sling.

"You gave me quite a scare. I almost thought you were dead."

"I don't die that easily, you know that."

"No, you don't." Rick chuckled, days past floating before his mind. "I knew I'd see you again."

"You can't get rid of me that quickly, sheriff." Samara smirked, for the first time since her return, feeling just a bit of happiness.

"Guess not." But all good things must come to an end. Rick's smile fell and in place came a grimness Samara hadn't seen in a long time. "Samara, did you manage to see their defense? Did you count how many there are? Anythin' you can tell me will help."

No matter how delighted their reunion could be, up above storm clouds were gathering. It was time for business.

"Not everyone in Woodbury is a soldier. Actually, only about a dozen or so know how to properly wield a gun. The others probably haven't even held one before. I counted about sixty-seventy people. Minus now since some of their own are dead. They have no doctors anymore save for a man named Milton, but he's more of a wannabe scientist, so I wouldn't put my life in his hands if I were them. But Milton's smart. He handles the logistics and is the Governor's adviser. He considers himself the Governor's friend, but I think the Governor keeps him around more out of practicality."

While she spoke, she took the book from her bedside and a pen Alice had left behind and Samara began to sketch. She was no artist, but she could draw a layout when she wanted to. She might not have seen all of Woodbury, but anything she could remember she drew on the worded pages.

"Their little town is protected by a makeshift wall out of trucks, wooden panels, tires and other junk. Getting through the front gate would be hard. We'd need something heavy to bash against those metal gates. But I know the way we could sneak inside without being detected. A small group could go unnoticed during nighttime and sever the snake's head. The ones that are the most dangerous are the Governor, Shumpert, Martinez, Bruce…and Merle. Those are the ones I know of. The rest of Woodbury would fall in line once the man leading them is dead. They're just sheep, after all."

"Merle…" Rick's lips twisted in displeasure. "You don't trust him."

"Should I?"

"No. That man is a liability and I don't want him here. The only reason he's still breathin' right now is because of Daryl."

"Are you going to send him away?" It would be unwise, considering their situation.

"It would be the right choice, but I think if I did, Daryl would leave as well. And I need Daryl _here_. Now of all times." Rick licked his chapped lips and shook his head, riding himself of thoughts of the pest locked up in the neighboring cell block. "What else can you tell me?"

"Shouldn't you be asking Merle instead? I've only been there a few weeks. He's been living there for almost a year."

"I wanna hear you first before him."

 _That way, if he lied, Rick would know._

"They have a lot of guns." Courtesy of her. "Army type, not the ones you find at a gun store. And they have walkers."

Rick scrunched his nose. "Walkers?"

"They use them for the arena mainly, but I don't doubt they would be crazy enough to set them on us."

The sheriff closed his eyes momentarily. No doubt he was feeling the burden on his shoulders get heavier with each passing second, but there was nothing to be done. They could not ignore this threat, or else it was their lives.

"Samara…tell me truthfully." The man pinned her down with his cutting blues, reminding Samara of a hawk dutifully chasing its prey. "After everythin' you've seen, do you think we stand a chance?"

"A chance? Yes." He wanted the naked truth and she would not disappoint him. "But I'm not sure for how long we could hold our ground. They outnumber and outpower us. They have more supplies and the Governor is capable of anything to get this place, including things _you_ , as the leader, would never do and once he realizes that, they'll be nothing stopping him."

If there was one thing the Governor preyed on was, was weakness.

Rick entwined his fingers and let his lips settled over them. His mind was elsewhere as he weighted scenario after scenario. What was best for the group, what wasn't, what could lead to victory or their untimely death. It was no easy task, to determine the future of so many people. One wrong step, and they would all feel its consequences.

"I thought about leavin'. Just takin' everythin' and findin' another place to live…" He scowled as if the notion offended him. "But then I think about what we went through to get here and my heart just won't let me."

"It would be the wise choice, the rational one considering the odds, but you never do things rationally, do you, sheriff? You're too stubborn. You can't let go. This prison is not just a building to you, it's a _home_. The one you lost back in Kentucky." In a way, Samara understood. People were territorial deep down, whether for an object, location or person. Giving up something you shed sweat, blood and tears over was not a pleasant prospect. "But if you think about it from a different perspective, it's just another abandoned building made out of brick that will fall one day when you least expect it. Those chain fences cannot stop the undead or the people desperate enough to claim this place, no matter how much you want to believe otherwise. There is no place in this world that is safe, Rick. There will always be a threat looming at every corner. You know this, so why are you trying to get reassurance from _me,_ of all people?"

Samara was the least person to give him reassurance that everything would be alright. She would give him cold, hard facts, whether they were to his tastes or not.

"Me and you…we've been through thick and thin." His gaze was steady and unyielding, calling upon that resolute strength that lied beneath that Kentucky skin of his. "We've gotten out alive out of situations that were _bad_ and even when we took different paths, we still met again in the middle. You might call that coincidence, but I see it as a sign. If we fight them, I think—no, I'm _certain_ we can win, but I need you by my side." He took a deep breath. "I know you don't like responsibility or getting attached, and I know you plan to leave, but I'm askin' you once again to help. You answered that call back at the farm even when you had no reason to and I'm hopin' you can do that again. I can't do this alone. I need every able man that knows how to wield a gun and has experience in killin'. I need you to stay and protect our home."

Samara could read between his words. He needed her in line. For her to stay put and not go rogue and do her own thing, as she always did. Samara would be a liar if she said she hadn't thought about it. Getting inside Woodbury would be easy, and if she took Michonne—which she knew the woman would agree to fullheartedly—they would be unstoppable. They would just have to find the Governor and slit his throat, and they would be rid of the greater evil.

"I was supposed to leave. Right now, if I hadn't been captured, I would be somewhere on the road, free to do whatever I wanted. Unburdened by other's opinions." She scoffed, wishing that that reality would have come true instead of this twisted, ugly one. "But things change. Goals change. I have _no_ intention of leaving anymore, sheriff. I'm not going to run this time. I have a score to settle and I can't rest until I fulfill my promise, even if it kills me. I know that goes against every fiber of my being, but I can't leave this place not without shedding some blood. If he's still alive, then the Governor doesn't get to do that to me, to Michonne, to Glenn, to you, to every other unfortunate soul that passed through his hands and just get off scot-free. Even in No Man's Land there is justice and letting a monster walk this earth would be a heinous crime." Her teeth came together with a resounding click as the whites of her eyes could be seen, even in the darkness of the room. "He's a _dead_ man, Rick."

Only the destruction of Woodbury could satisfy her. She could not leave without that happening first, because then…she would always be looking over her shoulder, even across several states. Leaving things half-done was not Samara's style.

"So, I'll be your obedient little soldier. I'll slip on my old Army skin and listen to your commands. I'll follow your lead until the bitter end. But you promise me this—" She would not get in line unless he agreed to her terms. He had to. It was in his interest as well. "If we win, we'll kill _every_ last one of them. Man, woman, child, it doesn't matter. They _all_ must burn and Woodbury along with it. Nothing of that vile town must remain, not even a speck of grass. Woodbury has to be purged from this world and the evil inside it along with it."

Rick was silent as he looked her over. Nothing could be discerned of his intentions or the thoughts swimming through his head. A tension that hadn't been there before was now overpowering between them. Blue against olive. Neither would back down.

Samara would have her due. It would be unlikely that she would set aside the affront the Governor had done her, and by associate all of Woodbury. If Rick would not agree…she would have no choice but to wave her own war.

But Rick would not let her go so easily.

"I _promise_."

Her fingers clenched over the material of her bed. Samara nodded, her eyes never leaving his.

"So…What's the next step, _leader_?"


	46. We Are Not Alright

He couldn't stop looking at her.

It was like a curse. Whatever he did, whichever position he stood or sat in, his eyes would always find her. Worse, Samara would not even look at him, which only served to highlight his frustrations. He could not understand why she chose to push him away. Involuntarily, his fears of the Governor doing the same thing he'd done to Michonne resurfaced. But the hunter had not detected a hint of deceit on Samara. She had been telling the truth and yet she still rejected him, sent him away like he was some dog. There was an itch at the back of his mind that held all the answers to his plight, but for the life of him he could not reach it, each and every time slipping out of his grasp. There was a reason, but it would remain obscure for the time being.

His only course of action at the moment was to let Samara figure her head out. He gave her her space, knowing that pushing her was comparable to just setting the powder keg directly on fire instead of the fuse. But _how_ his body betrayed his resolve. He wanted to touch her again. To be near her. To feel her warmth against him and he could feel its denial in the restlessness of his movements.

From his vantage point, everyone was gathered in their cell block—even Michonne—debating their future and he could see their opinions on each one of their faces—from bleak to a spark of optimism. Daryl couldn't say which side he chose. From what Merle had told him, this Governor was a real piece of work. Not the kind of man he wanted to encounter, but if push came to shove, Daryl would stand unyielding in face of his threat. If he wanted a fight, Daryl would deliver it. But the others…Half of them did not wish for a war and he understood. They could get hurt or worse, they could lose people. But that was the risk, wasn't it?

"I know all of us are worried about the Governor attackin', but I wanna address the giant elephant in the room." Maggie stood up and looked everyone in the eye. "What are we supposed to do with Daryl's brother? He can't stay here, not after what he did to Glenn."

And here it started, the real reason why they gathered. It's been five days now and Merle was still held prisoner. They had to reach a verdict today, no more delaying.

"I ain't sendin' my brother away."

"What if he turns on us? What if he leaves just like Martinez and comes back with that madman?" Glenn stood beside his bride. "You don't understand what he's capable of. I mean, look at me, for fuck's sake!"

Daryl did. The Korean was heavily bruised with a wide range of colors on his skin. The swelling in his eye had lessened, but his slightly crooked nose was the most noticeable of Merle's welcoming nature. Underneath his clothing, Daryl knew there was a bandage across his ribs where Merle cracked two and caused some internal bleeding. He had berated his brother for what he'd caused, but the man just waved it away like it was nothing. Another reason to be frustrated with him. Merle might have been gone from his life for a while, but he still remained unchanged. And that, somehow, disappointed Daryl immensely. But his brother leaving? That was out of the question.

"He goes, I go. I ain't leavin' him a second time." It wasn't even a threat. He would keep to his promise, no matter how much he cared for the people in the prison.

"No one is leavin', dammit!" Rick stepped up, his hands on his hips. He stared fiercely at Glenn. "This is not the time for us to quarrel among us! We got enough problems without instigatin' more. I mean to find a definitive solution to this 'Merle situation', _peacefully_."

"How?" Lori asked from her place on the steps, cradling her inflated belly. "I remember Merle from back in Atlanta. You weren't there, Rick. You barely met the man before he disappeared. He can't be controlled, much less pacified. No offense, Daryl, but you're brother is a bastard and he's got no place here. I'm not gonna have a baby with that man around. If he gets high and—"

"He's off drugs. Been clean for months now, he said." Daryl interfered. That had been quite a revelation, but it should have been evident. It wasn't like Merle could easily score some anymore.

Lori snorted, giving her answer on what she thought of Merle's proclamation.

"Daryl's right. As much as he doesn't seem like it, Merle's clean."

The hunter was surprised to hear Samara's voice. He would not have expected her to say anything positive about his brother, not even after he freed her from Woodbury.

"I guess that means he's that much of a charmer sober as he is high…" Andrea quipped sarcastically.

Stern blue eyes appraised him from the lower ground. "Daryl, do you think you could keep your brother in check?"

Daryl winced minutely. While having adapted to living with so many people in such enclosed spaces, he still could never be used to standing in the spotlight. Everyone was looking to him for his answer and it gave Daryl that maddening feeling of burying his head in the sand.

"I can try, but I can't guarantee it. Merle's always done his own thing. Even when we were kids. I got as much control over him as I got over a walker."

That caused a stir among them. Everyone spoke in whispers to their neighbors, belaying their opinion. This was the buzzing of an overexcited bee's nest and Daryl did not like the way people responded.

"He's a liability we don't need." Sasha was the first to speak, firm voiced as always. "I say he goes."

"So do I."

Maggie nodded after her husband, and soon followed Lori, Carl, Tyreese, and Andrea.

Seven against, Daryl counted. Sweeping over the others, he could see the uncertain nature of Hershel, Carol, Beth and Dale, while the ones left remained neutral.

"Maybe he's changed." Dale stepped forward. "We can't just throw him out because of what we remember. I don't think he's the same man anymore. He did bring Samara and Michonne back to us alive."

"For his own purpose." Andrea countered. "Not because he was being a decent human bein'."

"Oh, please." Samara snorted sardonically. "Who wouldn't have done the same?"

"Are you defendin' him?" Lori looked on in disbelief.

"No. I got little to no love for that man, even if he did save me. But I'm not going to be a hypocrite." Samara shifted her arm in the sling with silent aching. "These days, you need a good fucking reason to do a nice deed concerning people you don't particularly know. I don't want this man here, but right now we can't be picky. We need all the help we can get when it comes to the Governor. You weren't there. I've seen what that man is capable of. The four of us felt it on our own skin. And that's why we need his best soldier here, to point out every weakness and strength he knows about Woodbury. We need Merle more than I'd like to admit."

From that point of view, Samara had a point. They needed Merle's knowledge, and Daryl knew his brother wouldn't give it freely. Not without receiving something in return.

"Samara's right. Who else knows Woodbury better than Merle?" Daryl rode on that notion, doing everything in his power to keep Merle within the group. "We wanna know our enemy, we best start with one of their own."

"I don't think Merle will cause us trouble." Carol mused calmly. "Yes, he will rile us and try to get us to act against him, but he went beyond betrayin' this Governor to see Daryl again. He won't leave so easily, even if we did kick him out. I think it would be in his best interest to remain calm and he knows that."

If only his brother would actually understand that…

"You'd be surprised how much of a fuck-up he can be." Glenn sneered. "It won't be long before he botches up even something as simple as that."

Despite knowing the grain of truth in that, Daryl still couldn't hold back the scathing glare.

"How about we just let him stay until this whole 'Woodbury situation' is resolved?" The old farmer proposed, to the surprise of many. Except for Daryl, nobody seemed to want Merle around that much. "We can't let him go, either way. Even if he is mad enough to return, it would be our loss and their win. But if he stays, he might just prove us wrong and make himself a valuable asset."

Daryl could see the doubt on some of their faces, but the shift in favor was almost palpable. Some of the ones that wished for Merle to be gone, now grudgingly listened. If Merle's staying here meant the good of the group in the face of this new danger, then they really could not just refuse it, no matter if they liked it or not. But in the end, Daryl knew it all came down to the decision of one person. They might vote, but Rick held the final word.

"It's settled. He stays for now."

And with those words, it was done.

Daryl breathed in heavy relief, never mind that downstairs the buzzing picked up into a frenzy. _One less problem now._ But the harder part would come soon. Trying to keep Merle from doing something to endanger his standing in the group will be difficult. He would have to keep his brother close at all times, his eyes always on him. This would not be a repeat of Atlanta. Daryl would make sure of that.

"So what now?" Beth's soft, tingling voice made itself known the moment the chattering mellowed. "You think the Governor will retaliate?"

It wasn't even a question as Daryl saw it. If Merle had been here, he would have told them the unpleasant certainty without a breath wasted.

Rick nodded, grim faced. "Five days have now come and gone. Woodbury must know about us by now, so that means they'll eventually come. I say let him try."

"Sounds like he's got a whole town. We're outnumbered and outgunned." Carol said, visibly fearful of an upcoming battle.

Daryl could almost peer into her mind. Walkers they could fight, but people was another matter entirely. They weren't killers, Daryl thought, but what choice did they have? It was either fight or die.

"If the odds are so against us, what do you suggest we do?" Andrea asked Rick, stone faced. "Do you expect us to move?"

"Not at all. I remember what we went through to find this place. I got no intention of abandonin' it."

"We should leave. We can't win against this man's numbers." Hershel firmly pushed forward the motion. It was understandable. He only had Maggie and Beth left out of his entire family, and now Glenn. What father would not do anything in his power to avoid his children dying? His pale eyes caught the gaze of their silent spectator, standing remote from the whole world. "You said this Governor person may be dead? How can you be so uncertain? What exactly did you do to him, Michonne?"

But Michonne would not answer. She remained as hushed as a grave, her eyes impenetrable.

It was a wonder that she even showed up at all. The woman did everything in her capability to avoid contact with everyone, sleeping even in the other cell blocks. It was understandable why, but Daryl thought it didn't much matter if she was here or not. She provided no counsel, no opinion. Just watched and waited for the assembly to end.

Rick strode towards the center, making sure that all eyes were on him. He was restless, Daryl could see it in his tense shoulders. Of what awaited them in the future or for the fact that he had to push them all into something no one relished in. It was hard being the leader. This was why Daryl had begrudged it when Rick disappeared into Woodbury. The decisions the one in charge made affected everyone, not just himself. Everyone had put their lives in Rick's hands and they looked up him to keep them all safe and alive. Such a responsibility would topple a weaker person, but not Rick as he faced them with resolute eyes.

"Right now, all we need to be concerned with is the fact that they're out there. And that sooner or later, they will come after us. It could be weeks, it could be months, but eventually they'll come lookin'. I know you're scared. Hell, even I am. But we can't back down. We can't let that man think he can just take what he likes just because he wants it. The world don't go that way. He'll have to fight for it and a fight we'll give him."

Some nodded fullheartedly while others grimaced. This was no easy decision to make, but bottom line was…anyone could leave. Nobody was being kept rooted to the group. It was up to each and every one of them to decide what to do in the end. But if everyone decided to fight, then—

"We just need to make sure that when they do get here…We'll be ready."

* * *

Samara let a puff of smoke coil in the air.

The basketball court was barren save for her presence. The meeting had concluded a few moments ago and despite being expected to return in the medical ward, Samara sneaked for a breath of fresh air. She had spent enough time indoors, a bit of time out wouldn't hurt.

Lighting a cigarette had been harder than expected. One hand was heavily bandaged with her fingers entangled while the other was in a permanent sling. She had to crane her neck awkwardly to her dislocated shoulder, but the result was worth it. The nicotine flooded her hungry system, giving some respite to her cravings. It was worse when she sat in the clinic, knowing there were painkillers and other pills just a short distance away. Hershel had been smart to lock them into the office. That is, after she tried breaking into the medicine cabinet and Alice caught her just as she was about to crack the glass with a sheet wrapped around her arm.

Hershel had given her a choice, either he cuff her to the bed or he lock the medicine in the other room. Suffice to say, Samara now stared longingly at the closed door.

It'll pass, Samara tried to reassure herself. The cravings, the pangs of need. She escaped them once, she'll do it again. She just wished it was after the pain in her arms left her entirely. It was agonizing having to live with only light painkillers to attenuate them.

The crunching of fine pebbles startled Samara.

"Ain't you jumpy today?" Andrea said as she joined her on the table.

"Try going through withdrawals a second time in a few months." Samara grumbled as her jaw locked tightly. "It's a _blast_."

"Yeah, I heard what you did. Can't say I blame you." Her pale eyes frowned in worry as they landed on her many bandages.

If Andrea knew then so did the others. Samara groaned at that thought.

"Did you get a chance to talk to Michonne?"

Samara shook her head. Michonne had all but sprinted out of building the moment Rick put an end to the meeting, and Samara wasn't about to go running after her if she didn't wish for company. Tyreese had tried and came back with his tail tucked between his legs.

"She's _bad_ , Samara." Andrea bit her lip as her eyes darkened with trepidation. "She's talkin' to Terry and Mike again. I heard her when she thought she was alone on the baseball field."

The Native almost choked on the cigarette smoke, her eyes wide in surprise. "You…knew?"

The scowl on Andrea was biting. "The three of us lived shoulder to shoulder for over six months. Do you really think a detail like that escaped me? I ain't blind, Samara, nor am I stupid. Don't insult me."

Samara put her one good hand up in a placating gesture. In hind sight, she should have expected this. A detail like that could not have escaped Andrea's notice with how tight their group had been.

Andrea stared in to her interlocked fingers with a deep frown on her face. It was visible how much this reappearance in Michonne's life shook her.

"I'm afraid, Samara." She whispered, her voice cracking. "Of what she might do—"

"She's not the type to harm herself, Andrea." Samara cut her off. That was a dark thought. One Michonne had thought of most likely, but would never act on. She was the type to endure no matter the hardships. "Not physically at least."

" _That's_ what I'm afraid of." Andrea's blue eyes pleaded with her. "I don't know what happened in Woodbury, but I can't just sit and watch while she chews herself to death on the inside."

"I don't either, but if she won't accept our help, then there really isn't anything we can do. If we gang up on her, she's going to clam up and it's going to be even harder for her to break out."

Samara knew Michonne's way of behaving. She was a private person and what ailed her was for her own ears only. This way no one could see her when vulnerable. People's perception's changed, even if it was minutely.

"What did he do to her?"

Samara was silent. This was not her tale to tell. If Michonne ever wanted to reveal it, then that was her prerogative. Until then, Samara would abide by her wishes of secrecy.

Andrea sighed in dismay, as her knuckles paled. "I get the feeling that it's something I don't wish to name."

"Just know that it was bad enough to reduce her to this version of Michonne."

Samara would not voice it, but she too was concerned for her friend. They were out of Woodbury, but it's malevolent presence was still looming over them days after like an ever impending storm. It would be a long time before they stoped looking over their shoulder, even in an empty room.

She hoped Andrea wouldn't learn the truth, at least not so soon. Maybe when the battle was fought and won, maybe then. The blond was the most soulful out of the three of them. She took everything to heart, no matter how unwavering she wanted to appear. The blond did not need to be burdened with this.

"Samara?"

"Hmm?"

The hug Samara was enveloped in had her melt into it instantaneously. With this person, Samara did not need to have a strong wall or to be an anchor. Sometimes, it was best to just let go and accept a kind gesture. After everything that had happened, after the abuse and the heartache, Samara welcomed a familiar gesture.

"I'm so happy you're alive." Andrea whispered in her ear, her voice a harmonious blend of joy and sadness. "I was beginnin' to think we'd lost you for good."

"If only it would be that easy."

Andrea smiled and chuckled lowly as they parted, oblivious to the edge of derision in Samara's words. "I think I know who I have to stick with in any dangerous situation."

Samara's features smoothed, content to see a real smile in these dark times. But Andrea's happiness soon faded, replaced instead with bitter melancholy.

"I'm just sorry it had to be this way. What happened to you and Glenn and Rick. And nobody is talkin' about what happened to Michonne and that _scares_ me."

The Native's teeth gritted, hating the Governor a little bit more. That man may have only hurt four people, but his reach expanded beyond that, affecting even more with the aftermath of his actions.

"She's going to be alright. Someday, somehow, she will come back to us, but we have to give her space. I know you're her friend, but the less people know the better. At least until Michonne is ready to talk."

 _If she'll ever be. Knowing Michonne, she just might bury it deep inside and ignore it ever happened._

"But could you talk to her? At least to make sure that she's alright."

Samara bit her lip, but conceded in the end. She would do this for the blond. She owed her this much. Besides, Samara would be lying if she said she wasn't equally curious as to how their other sister was doing.

"This Governor…" Andrea's eyes hardened into cold, sharp gemstones. "He's gonna pay, isn't he?"

" _Dearly_."

After Merle was released from his cage, she would talk with him. She and Rick had a lot of things to discuss. About Woodbury, about the Governor, about his cooperation and the future. Ever since last night, Rick had decided to let the man stay. He saw the temporary value the man held and would not shun it over a grudge. After…If they win, Merle was on his own.

* * *

Milton ran. He flew through the back alleys of Woodbury as if the devil was on his heels, eager to reach the main street. Even from his remote studio he could have heard the car horns and angry voices, waking him from his slumber. The man barely had time to dress properly, knowing that time was against him. He knew what was happening. Felt it for days now as the air in Woodbury grew heavier and fear seemed to dominate the little town. All of that seemed to have reached its peak today.

—The people of Woodbury were finally rioting.

His boots hit main street's pavement and Milton watched in alarm as almost all of Woodbury was gathered at the gates. Three cars were already lined up, packed to the bring with belongings, waiting for the way to open and escape the dire situation. As Milton approached, he could spy pitchforks and shovels and anything that could be used as a weapon in their hands. Martinez, Shumpert and Bruce along with other of the Woodbury guards were on the wall, trying to talk the people back into their homes, but with no avail. Fear had made them deaf.

And with the smell of fear and the loud noises, came the biters. Martinez and the other guards began shooting, causing the Woodbury people's panic to rise to even higher proportions. Milton could not let this continue. If he did, it would end in bloodshed.

"Everybody calm down!"

His voice was lost in the thunderous sea of anger, fear and desperation. Milton looked around hopeless as nobody, even the ones closest, seemed to have heard him. Was he truly that inconsequential?

A hand caught his wrist and Milton came face to face with an anxious Karen. She too was sporting a makeshift weapon and a heavy backpack.

"Milton, we can't stay here anymore. This place is _crazy_. Please, you have to let us go."

"Karen, you don't want to go out there. It's too dangerous."

"Yeah, well, we'll take our chances."

She just didn't understand. It wasn't that easy living outside their protective walls. The people of Woodbury were not even remotely prepared for that harsh reality beyond the Governor's protection.

A car horn startled both of them as one of the cars began to honk excessively, drowning out the biter groans, the bullets and the fearful people. Martinez dropped from the Wall, anger visible on his contorted features. If the noise kept on getting louder, they would have a hoard on their hands in no time.

"Hey! Knock off the horn!" He banged on the car's window, almost wanting to strangle the man inside. Either terror or stupidity made the man not listen.

As Martinez kept on shouting to the man, Milton tried to reach him, fighting through the sea of bodies. The soft man knew that sooner or later, in this high intensity situation, Martinez would lose his temper and use force. And if he shot someone, even in the leg…Hell would break lose.

"Martinez, don't hurt him!" Milton screamed just as he reached Martinez who had managed to drag the driver out of his car.

The Hispanic wretched his arm free from Milton's grip, glaring vehemently at the man.

"I don't take orders from you, Milton!"

It was not about command, Milton thought in desperate annoyance. "These people are scared. Shoving a gun in their face won't help."

"There's a riot going on here in case you didn't notice."

"You're making things worse!"

And then the screaming started. Everyone looked around, perplexed, but soon found the source as three of their people ran for dear life from the undead within the Wall. Unfortunately, they were not fast enough.

Martinez commanded everyone to stay back as he ran towards the threat, rifle ready. The biters were already upon those three unfortunate souls.

Milton fumbled with his own gun, but managed to run hot on Martinez's heels. His heart clenched with dismay as the biters fought to reach the flesh of their people with each second wining ground. _This was not supposed to happen._

The first man to die was bitten on the neck and Milton stopped a distance away and aimed. For once in his life his hands did not tremble, managing to hit the biter's head with straight accuracy. The second, a woman, was bitten on the face to which Martinez shot her first before the biter. A mercy kill. The last man standing fell with the walker on top him while biting into the skin of his chest. The biter's head was blasted off by Martinez again, spilling blood all over its victim and the hot concrete.

The man on the ground began to sob uncontrollably, knowing that this was his doom. The wound on his chest was raw with bright crimson blood mingling with the blackish tar of the undead.

Milton approached him with heavy sadness. He was beyond help, no matter how much he pleaded with them. The people of Woodbury watched in grim silence as life slowly began to bleed out of him. Some even cried for help to be given, but even they were aware that it was a hopeless cause. Even strong Martinez stood still as a statue, lost on what to do. Milton knew what was on his mind, but he seemed reluctant to do it now that the heat of the moment passed. All eyes were on the two of them, on what their decision would be, but even Milton could not act. His shaking was back with a vengeance.

In the end, both Martinez and Milton were spared that morbid deed, as the Governor walked calmly out of his building and shot the man point blank. He did not spare them even a second glance as he strolled back inside without a word.

Milton was the first to wake out of his stupor. With quick feet, he ran after the man, leaving the confused and fearful people outside. Inside his apartment, Milton found him packing his bags with ammunition, guns and even some explosives. There seemed to be a singular track mind inside his head, and everything else he was blind to as he moved back and forth mechanically.

"What the hell was that?! You put a round in a man's head in front of all those people and just…take off?" Milton chased after him, his insides a jumble of emotions. He felt like suffocating. "You have to talk to them!"

"Why?"

The coldness in his tone had Milton pause in slight dread. He'd never heard the Governor speak like that before. His anger had always been a heated affair, but this taciturnity in which he expressed his fury had Milton recoil. He was _petrified_ at this moment, but he needed to endure. Not for his sake, but for the people scared out of their wits outside.

"They're panicking. It's been almost a week since Samara and her people left, leaving dead behind and nobody is giving them any answers. They were ready to charge through those gates not two minutes ago!"

"So let 'em."

Milton's eyes grew in panic. What was he saying?

"Those people won't last a day!"

"Those people have had it _easy_." The Governor stopped and faced him, his features carved out of stone. Even with one eye, the man could still cow you to a blubbering mess. "That ends now."

"Don't blame them for the mess that you created!" Milton lashed out, for the first time fighting against his intimidation. He could not back down, not now. "They're scared!"

"Well, I'm through holdin' their hands. We're at _war_."

"Really?" The words came tumbling out, unable to even stop. "Was torturing Samara's people an act of war or was it just spite?"

Th stillness in the man's presence was almost bruising. The Governor was not used to people arguing back, even less when the man in question was no braver than a mouse.

"Don't you lecture me, Milton. If you believe Samara to be such a saint then go after her like Alice and Stevens." The man spat with venom on his tongue. "That woman is more likely to shoot you than help you, and her people are just as dangerous. Those people killed many of ours—Crowley, Tim, Gargulio, Charlie and many more. That's what your _friend_ did."

"And I know what you did to them!" After, Milton would wonder in stupefaction where this courage came from. "Letting Merle beat up that kid, cutting off Samara's finger and that poor woman…" Milton grimaced in complete disgust. "I saw the Room. I know what those stains are. Have you lost your mind, Philip? This is _not_ you!"

"And how well do you know me, Milton?" The man scoffed, wishing to hear no more. "Don't sprout your holier than thou bullshit. Those people killed my own, bit off my ear and then took Penny—my daughter—away for good. What was I supposed to do? Roll out the red carpet for them?"

"Anything except for what you did! It was monstrous! You weren't punishing them for Gargulio's or Eisenberg's death, not even for your missing ear or Penny. You were just being _cruel_!" The accusations just came gushing forth and Milton couldn't stop. The stress of the past five days had finally reached its peak for him as well. "I know you better than you think, Philip. Keeping biter heads in your apartment? How can you explain that?"

Governor's pulled back his lips, exposing his teeth in a threatening manner. Whatever words he was about to voice were cut short by Bruce who entered hastily without even a knock.

"What is it?" The Governor snapped, the tension in the room almost unbearable.

"The whole town is out on the street." The man panted out of breath. "It's gonna get ugly again."

Governor stood unaffected. He would not move a toe beyond his apartment.

Milton cursed him silently and left the man in his hiding hole with Bruce right on his heels. For the moment, Woodbury had to be saved and then the Governor. No matter what happened, Milton would not let either fall.

Outside, he was greeted with a growing mob of people as whole of Woodbury was at the Governor's doorstep. They were talking among themselves, angry and desperate voices shouting for the Governor to guide them, to save them, but it fell on deaf ears as the man all but shunned them and their weakness. He had his own demons to handle, and would not take theirs on as well.

"Everyone, if I could—if I could have your—" Milton winced as everyone seemed to ignore his meek presence. "Uhm…"

But Martinez came to the rescue and let his lungs bellow.

"Everybody, shut up!"

The crowd quieted and their eyes finally seemed to find Milton.

"Thank you." Milton muttered to Martinez before facing the rest. He felt anxious as so many held his attention, but he needed to be firm. Steeling his nerves, Milton tried to evoke the audacity he had displayed upstairs, hoping to keep his spine hard and straight. "The biters on the perimeter have been dispatched. The fences have been repaired."

"For now." Karen grumbled displeased and soon others followed in voicing their unhappiness.

Milton swallowed thickly at the ocean of angry faces directed at him. He was not used to it.

"Where's the Governor?" Someone asked from the back of the crowd.

"His condition is...unsteady." That was the least to say, but the most appropriate. "The wounds he suffered—"

Again, the people grumbled. Why should the Governor hide to lick his wounds while others had to suffer out in the open and without a leadership to guide them in these dark times? People have died. They had lost as well, grieved over their dead but they were out here in the open, trying to confront this situation.

"We want answers." Karen proclaimed resolutely, others rallying behind her.

Milton looked them over. The people were exhausted, mentally and physically. These past few days had affected them greatly and being left in the dark had no doubt soured their mood, leaving them with a sense of abandonment. The man they looked for guidance to had left them in their time of need. They had given their lives to him, left them in his care and yet, now when it mattered, he would not rise to the occasion?

"You're right, Karen. You're right." Milton spoke softly. "Every one of us has suffered. We've lost more people in just a few days than we have in months. We don't even have time to grieve anymore because the death never stops. Nothing's ever going to be the same. Not in our lifetime. So what do we do?" He looked all of them in the eye, his gaze never wavering and his words definite. This time everyone seemed to see him. They even keenly listened to his words. "We dig deep and we find the strength to carry on. We work together and we rebuild. Not just the fences, the gates, the community…but ourselves. Our hearts and our minds. And years from now, when they write about this plague in the history books, they will write about Woodbury. _We_ persevered when so many didn't. _We_ are the ones that will endure no matter what comes our way. So please, have faith. Woodbury will not fall so easily, not as long as we stand untied."

He could not feel the tension anymore. It was a faint whisper at the back of his mind. Even the people's terror seemed to dampen as Milton's words gave them the courage to face the days to come. Milton believe every word of his speech. Dark or light, they will prevail. They had survived through too many things to lose their lives now, but they needed to be united. They had to be one to survive. And for that, the man above had to walk among them once more and take up his mantle as leader.

Milton's gaze ventured to the story above and caught his lone eye watching through parted drapes.

* * *

His cell door opened with a resounding click and a whine of the rusty hinges.

"Lettin' me out already?" Merle stepped out of his confinement with a lazy stretch. "And here I was already plannin' on how to decorate my comfy cell. I was thinkin' about baby blue for the walls. Maybe even get a pinup girl."

"Everyone's come to a decision." Daryl shared none of his amusement as he watched Merle his somber eyes. "You'll stay with us for the time bein', but you can't start no trouble. You wanna be part of us, you're gonna have to start changin' too. In this world, there ain't no time for lone wolves and I ain't got the patience for them no more."

Merle felt his hackles rise. No hello, not even a 'how are you' and Daryl went straight to lecturing him. That did not sit well with the older Dixon, and he felt the old urge to strike his brother over the side of his head. But Daryl moved before he could even lift a finger, expecting to be followed. Merle's jaw locked tightly as he stepped beside his brother, keeping the better part of his anger in check for once. Daryl needed to understand a few things.

"I don't wanna be part of these people. Shit, Daryl! They're the reason I'm missin' a fuckin' hand!" He waved his metal prosthetic in Daryl's face in case he forgot. "I don't want 'em and neither do they." With his one good hand, he caught Daryl and wheeled him around, so he could acknowledged the seriousness of his claim. "Let's _leave_ , Daryl."

Daryl watched him steadily, his eyes hard as stone.

"And then what, Merle? Let that maniac run over the prison? Let the others get killed? Get tortured like Samara and Glenn and Michonne were?" He wretched his arm away. "That ain't gonna happen."

Merle's lips pursed, wishing he didn't have to voice the next words, but if they helped then all for the better. "We can bring your woman too. Just keep her under control or I swear I'm gonna slap that nastiness off her."

"You ain't hearin' me, brother." His eyes narrowed with a hint of danger. "I ain't dumb enough to leave these people to their fate."

"No, I think you're smart enough to know who's gonna win if the sheriff goes to war with the Governor!" Merle hissed vehemently. He was beginning to lose his patience. "This place will be up in smoke in no time. Everyone here will die, includin' your honey. But that don't mean you have to go down the ship with 'em."

"No one's gonna die!" Finally, his brother showed some life, only Merle wished it wasn't in defense of those assholes.

"Don't be so blind, Daryl! You escape the Governor _once_. There ain't gonna be a second time. Your woman knows that. She got away the first time, but not the second."

Daryl paused, confused. "First time?"

"Back in Geneva."

Both brothers looked out in startle. Samara stood in the middle of the hallway, near the entrance of the cell block. How long she had been standing there, watching and listening, was a mystery to Merle. He hadn't even sensed her with how focused he had been on his brother.

"What's Geneva?" Daryl looked between Merle and Samara, perplexed.

"It's the town me and Michonne and Andrea stayed at during winter." Her voice echoed off the empty cells as she took steady steps towards them, her arrogant eyes never leaving Merle.

How much Merle wished he could sock her right now. She had no business butting in their conversation. She should crawl back in the clinic with that lame body of hers.

"What does Merle have to do with it?"

The squaw stopped just shy of them, distant enough that Merle couldn't reach her…or Daryl. "We didn't leave because of walkers. We were chased out by him and his goons. Your brother led a group there with the single purpose of killing me and Michonne, maybe even have some fun beforehand."

The disgusted smirk at the end had Merle on pins. He wouldn't touch this bitch or the jungle girl with a ten foot pole. He couldn't have spoken the same of his dead men, but him…no. What perplexed him more was the fact that Daryl had not been aware of their previous encounter. The squaw had remained silent on that matter as did her friend. Why, he wondered. Because they had tried to kill each other?

"Me and her…we've met before." Merle said as he wet his dry lips. "Last winter, me and some of my men were scoutin' a town and we came across two women. We didn't even get a chance to say one word before this one over here started shootin' like she was Canary Jane. We fought and all of my men got killed."

"Bullshit, you shot that kid we left alive!"

"Fine. I killed Gargulio. Happy?" He scoffed. Damn, how much a bottle of some strong liquor would do him good right about now. "I followed her and that ninja bitch. Made good on not bein' seen or heard. They never suspected I was on their tail. Once I knew their little hidin' hole, I got back to Woodbury. Told the Governor that some of the others got killed while Crowley and Tim were kidnapped by a group. Governor sent me out again with more people. He never doubted my words." Why would he? Merle was a good liar when sober and by then, he had become almost indispensable to the Governor. "I almost had 'em if it hadn't been for this crazy bitch drivin' a fuckin' jeep into the building!"

Samara smirked, relishing in that memory. "It was my pleasure."

"Yeah, love you too, sweetheart." Merle spat sarcastically, his twice defeat a bitter memory on his tongue. "Lost all my men. Again."

"And then he chased us with his car and tried to ram us off the road. He tried to kill us. _Again_."

"But you won. I was the one that lost and got flipped over. You left me there to die in a totaled, smokin' car."

"And to this day I regret not finishing it right then and there. At least then I would've been a hundred percent sure you were dead."

Merle chuckled. "Honey, you better kiss my feet in thanks that I didn't die that day, otherwise your ass would still be in Woodbury right about now."

As the two bantered back in forth like two dogs over a bone, Daryl watched them murderously silent. His eyes were narrowed to slits and his nostrils flared with barely suppressed ire.

"Samara…" His cutting tongue broke the barking contest between the two. Daryl looked _pissed_ , Merle thought with interest. "You knew my brother was alive all this time and you didn't say anythin'?"

 _Ah…_

Merle grinned. Just the break he needed.

"I didn't know he was your brother until I realized it much later." Samara shifted uncomfortably. "I couldn't tell you. I thought he was dead, that I killed him, and I thought…I'd be better if you didn't know."

"Ignorance is bliss, am I right?" Merle kept on smiling. This was _gold._

"Shut up!" Daryl snapped at his brother. This was not the time for his japes. "So, you thought you killed my brother and you didn't say anythin'. You just kept on pretendin' like everythin' was alright. You laid next to me while my brother's blood was still red on your hands." His snarl was ruthless, but to Merle it was glorious. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

The discomfort she had felt before had all but evaporated. She was no more than a stone statue, watching them flatly, and utterly without empathy.

"I thought it was for the best. What good would it have done if I had told you?"

"I would've known!" Daryl exploded, his eyes wide with fury and Merle could spot the whisper of bitter betrayal. "He's my brother! My last family! Who the hell are you to keep that away from me?"

"I did it because…"

"What?!"

The woman took a deep breath, but Merle had seen the minute crack in her flawless mask. There was heavy despair buried beneath.

"…I just didn't want to tell you."

Daryl scoffed and turned away from her. The more it hurt, the more he'd pull away from her, Merle thought. It was for the best. His little brother was blind to her, the smitten fool. Blind to what she really was, and Merle would not allow him to fall deeper into the hole. He'd drag him out by his ears if he had to.

"I heard that you thought Daryl was dead along with the chink's woman…" Merle's smooth voice echoed after the storm. "Out of curiosity, if you thought Daryl was dead this whole time, then what were you gonna do with me once we reached the prison?"

The squaw gave him a sneer. "You mean, once we got out of Woodbury…I think you have a pretty good idea."

"I knew there was somethin' fishy when you kept on badgerin' me about a weapon." Merle grinned, chuckling under his breath. Good thing he hadn't given her one then, even if he had been tempted after the first few biters surprised them. An instinct had held him back and for good reason.

"Fuck this." Daryl spat and hurried past them, past the woman without a second look. She did not glance after him either, her eyes on Merle only.

His brother needed to vent, to lick his wounds. To finally come to terms that this woman was no good for him. Even Merle in his limited knowledge of love understood that much. He might not have had many relationships, or at least one meaningful one, but he knew women and Samara was not what his brother needed, even if he did gravitate towards her type. Merle would not let his brother stew in wretchedness and this woman seemed to have it dog her heels like a faithful hound.

Daryl would get over her. They would find other women, nicer ones than this shrew before him. With time, he'd forget about her entirely. Of that, Merle had no doubt.

"You lost, hun. Daryl don't forget so easily. I think that was the sound of the camel's back breakin'."

Samara shrugged, nonplussed, but Merle knew better. He had seen her weakness, even if it had been for split second. "The further he stays away from me, the better. Your entire family is fucked up. I wash my hands of you."

"You really would have killed me in that forest, huh?"

Samara took a step closer. And then another, until she was just a few feet away. Those cold olive eyes stared him down despite his obvious height over her, making Merle's grin even perkier.

"If Glenn hadn't told me that Daryl was alive…I would have _relished_ in it." She hissed at him like an angry cat. "I even pictured different scenarios."

Merle chuckled, no doubt each scenario more gruesome than the next. He took the necessary steps to close the distance and now the unlikely pair stood a breath's away from each other. The squaw carried an odd scent, a combination of herbs and antiseptics that made Merle's nose tingle. But there was no mistaking the aggression in her eyes. Merle wondered if it hadn't been for the sling and her bandaged and bruised body, would she have attempted to attack him? The thought had his blood simmer.

"Oh, you're definitely like me, hun."

She grimaced, actually offended by his remark. "I'm nothing like you."

"That's where you're wrong, Pocahontas. We're more alike than you think."

Her time in the sick bed had dulled her reflexes as Merle caught some of her tresses in his grasps. _Smooth._

Samara's scowl deepened to bloody murder and she wretched herself bodily out of his grasp, leaving Merle disappointed. At first, Merle had been almost sure she would have used her bandaged hand. It would have given him a reason to grab it and _squeeze_ as hard as he could. It would have been self-defense if anyone dared to accuse.

 _Damn bitch must've known._

"Firecracker." He said, his disappointment hidden behind a wicked grin.

"You can't return to Woodbury anymore, Merle."

He shrugged, indifferent. If she thought that would upset him, she was dead wrong.

"So what? Figured that much already. Too much shit's happened and I don't think Governor's in a listenin' mood these days, even if I tried to explain. Woodbury ain't the only place left in this world, hun. This just means I gotta find a new one. With Daryl. Or hell, we just might live in woods. We don't need four walls and a roof."

It has been a while since they did a nature trip and it was about time they took one. Towns, buildings, anything that had walls was not a welcoming place. Sure, it might have its perks, but out in the wild, they wouldn't be disturbed by people wanting something they had.

"He won't leave this place."

Merle wagged his finger. "That's where you're wrong. He only has _me_ now. I told him you were a snake, but he don't listen. But it think he'll start now. I'm his brother, after all. I know best."

"You know shit!" She spat, contorting her lips into an angry snarl. _Damned she-wolf bitch._

The squaw took a few shuddering breaths to control her anger. The next time their gaze connected, she was back to her stony self, and Merle had an inkling she wanted something from him. Why else would she be here? Not for his sparkling companionship, certainly.

"I didn't come here to argue with you. You have to come with me to Rick. We need information. Everything you have on Woodbury—from its people to its defenses. _Everything_."

Merle guffawed. That was a laugh. The sheriff ordering him around, telling the squaw to fetch him like a dog. He wasn't one of his bootlickers, to come at his beck and call. And besides—

"Why the hell would I tell you any of that?" Merle snarled, finally shedding his mirth. "After you ratted me out to the Governor? I should spit in your face, bitch!"

"Unless you want to see the end of this war alive, I suggest you comply." The woman bit back, matching him word for word. "We're going to need every help we can get and you're the only one who knows Woodbury by heart. Like it or not, you're a part of this. If you won't do it for us, then do it for your brother. He's the one that's going to fight this battle, after all, and depending on the knowledge you give us, live or die."

 _Damn this cunt to hell and back_. She had known where to hit the nail to drive it home. But she forgot one thing, he and his brother won't be staying, not for as long as the Governor decided to come barging. She seemed to be under the impression that he could not sway his brother. But Merle was the eldest and Daryl always followed his lead. From the moment he could stand on his own two baby legs to when he was an adult, Daryl had always been there beside him. Merle could count on that. A tiger never changed his stripes, after all.

And so, he gave her his answer in the form of a disgusting, thick phlegm on her boot.

* * *

The walk to the field was quiet. Event the air in this part of the prison seemed more clearer, with a hint of wild grass and pine comb. Samara had needed the fresh air to sooth her frazzled mind. Her encounter with the Dixon brothers had left her in an agitated state. She had calculated wrongly. The Native had hoped that catching the two brothers together would ease Merle more easily into cooperating, especially if Daryl also gave him a shove, but her plan had backfired. The moment Geneva came into discussion she knew her chance had come and gone, and instead, she would have to break Daryl's heart all over again.

Goddammit, how she wished he had never learned that particular truth. But with his brother present, it was bound to be uncovered sooner or later. Strange, she had expected Daryl to have been more upset, but his anger had been quite…subdued to what he normally exuded. She did not feel that burning fury coming off him.

All in all, she had taken the chance to drive him further away from her. This would have been the final straw, he had to believe that. If he came back— _Gods, please don't let that happen. I can only take so much before I give in_ —she would have to kick him down like a dog, no matter how much it would hurt.

But thoughts of Daryl evaporated from her mind as soon as the buildings ended. Over yonder, the baseball field stood forlorn, surrounded only by the sea of thigh-high grass. An on the meager pews, sat the one person she hadn't seen since their fateful escape.

Approaching cautiously, Samara could hear the woman's deep voice. Michonne was whispering to herself, knee-deep in conversation with her two dead companions.

"They saying anything useful?"

Michonne did not even startle. Her head twitched to the side as her voice abruptly ended, listening to Samara's faint steps as they got approached. Samara climbed the pews, and sat beside the sword-wielder, a courteous distance away. Michonne's dark coffee eyes followed her acutely. Even now, Samara could see no light to them. They were just as dull as she had remembered them at the helicopter crash. Simply a reflection of the outside world with no knowledge of what lay within.

"It's peaceful here." Samara mused as she stared out in the wilderness about them. The field had been left unattended for so long that Samara could see blades of grass sticking out haphazardly, but there was no denying if serenity. There were no walkers rattling the fences, no other people scurrying about, just them and nature and a slight breeze that ruffled the ends of their locks.

Michonne stared mutely out in the open, her gaze unseeing.

The two friends sat in perfect silence, no awkwardness between. This had been a past-time of theirs, when the world was much simpler and they only numbered in three. Whenever they found a roof to sleep under, Samara and Michonne would always find each other atop the building staring out into the now quiet world, each lost in their own thoughts. Andrea would sometimes join, but her thoughts would always take a sobering turn towards what she had lost and soon gave up on this activity. Samara could not say that her thoughts were pretty. At most, they were disquieting and rarely happy, but they were the only thing she had left and she held onto them with a vengeance. The same could not be said for Michonne. Whatever she saw, she kept private, but Samara had no doubt she thought about the past as well, good and bad.

"How are the others?"

Samara blinked. Her friend's raspy voice had been unexpected. The Native had thought that she would have to slowly coerce Michonne into talking, but it seemed the woman had taken the initiative from her.

"They don't understand what's going on." She awkwardly lit up a cigarette and let the smoke fill her lungs. "Tyreese is on edge. Andrea as well. They're worried about you, since they don't know what happened to make you isolate yourself. They're afraid you might do something stupid."

Michonne snorted, a spark of disdain on her tongue. "I'm not suicidal."

"I know, but they _love_ you and it's normal for them to be scared."

Silence.

"…And you?" Those dark eyes regarded her flatly.

Samara let the smoke coil around her face as she stared lethargically at it. "I know you'll come back when you're ready."

The two women relapsed back into silence and Samara tried to sponge as much as she could from this temporary peace. Dark clouds were gathering and days like these would be rare to find. Not just because of the upcoming war, but her and Daryl and their… _capricious_ relationship. Sometimes, Samara would wonder if she was being selfish for thinking of such trivial matters when their lives hung in the balance, and so many others suffered far worse fates. He blood-sister here being one of them.

"I feel nothing but hate."

Samara looked to her. Michonne's lips were pursed painfully as she stared out in the green ocean. It was visible how difficult it was for her to speak, but it seemed the woman had finally reached the limit of her silence.

"For him, for myself. Sometimes I forget for who and I just stew in a hopeless anger."

"Is it working?"

"I'm talking to _them_ again, what do you think?" Michonne took a quivering breath and shook her head, willing the anger away. "I just don't know what to do. I can't go back to the others. I don't want them to _see_. I don't need their pity or their sorries. What good would that do me? Just empty words."

Michonne looked so lost as she stared at her hands. A hopelessness in her that tore at Samara's heart and made her wish she could just tell Michonne that everything would be alright, but it was a lie. Nothing will ever be the same again.

"I can still see the blood. What I did to him…Samara, I'm _afraid_ of myself." The sword-wielder's eyes widened until the whites were visible and Samara could see the terror destroying her mind. The horror of what had happened still ate her raw, leaving her soul a mess of pieces she had to shakily collect and tape back together. But the pieces were fragile and even the lightest breeze would topple them and break them anew. "Every time I shut my eyes, I can see him and what he did to me. I'm back in that cell or I'm back in his apartment doing those godawful things and I feel like I'm suffocating. I fear that if I close my eyes, our escape would prove to be just a dream and I'll be back in my cell, in the dark, waiting for his footsteps to come."

Samara dared not make a wrong move. This was a crucial point. If Samara so much as breathed wrongly, Michonne would break at the seams.

"He's not here, Michonne. This is not a dream. We're miles away from Woodbury and he can't touch you."

"He'll come, though—"

"And we'll be ready for him." Softly, but firmly, Samara tried to placate the woman. She needed to come down from her bubbling hysteria. Michonne was _terrified_ of that man, that much was certain. After what he did, she'd be a fool not to, but the Native could also sense the unadulterated hatred Michonne sported for him. And that hatred was what she needed to keep on moving. "You don't think he's dead."

Michonne shook her head after a minute pause.

"What I did couldn't have killed him. Hurt him deeply, yes, and he'll never forget that. He's going to come, Samara. Those wounds I inflicted will heal and we'll wake up one day with him at our doorstep."

"Then he _will_ die. He won't leave this place alive."

Those dark eyes explored her intensely, scouring through every nook and cranny of her being and Samara allowed it. She wanted Michonne to take note of her courage and her conviction of triumph, but she also needed for her to taste her fear. This ordeal had not left Samara untouched. She too dreaded the moment the man will come, but she chose to face him with her chin held high.

"You're so sure of it."

"I have to be." Samara smiled melancholic. "What other option is there?"

Michonne let her eyes drop to her hands and stared at them with a eerie pensiveness.

"He had a little girl."

Samara frowned in confusion.

"The Governor. He kept an undead girl in his apartment. Couldn't have been more older than my daughters at the time she died. I think it was his kid." Michonne looked Samara straight in the eye, her serenity never leaving despite her morbid words. "I killed her. I scalped her right in front of him and I felt nothing for it."

The Native shivered, disturbed by this information. She had been in the Governor's apartment and neither smelled nor heard a trace of a walker. If the man kept one—worse if it was his daughter—then Samara might start to understand where it all went wrong. Perhaps the girl had been his snapping point?

"That man is not normal, Samara." Michonne continued, her knuckles white as her fingers were now clenched into tight fists. "He kept walker heads in fish tanks so he could look at them. Like some twisted trophies. And what he did to us…" She winced. "This is the kind of man we're up against. Are you sure he won't just kill us instead?"

For once, Samara was at a loss for words.

* * *

It was near sunset when everyone gathered in the mess hall. Rick had asked them all to come as Dale would be delivering the weapons count while Carol divulged the number of provisions they owned. Everyone was sitting at the tables, listening to Carol as she almost finished her list. Merle and Michonne were the furthest away from the group, each on opposite sides of the room.

Everyone could feel Merle's presence among them. His company was as welcome as a crocodile's among a gnu herd. The veiled glares sent his way did not pass over his head, but he just grinned instead. The man seemed to find their loathing amusing, probably because he knew there was nothing they could do about it. Glenn was the most affected—his fists clenching and unfurling constantly while his jaw locked to the point of breaking, his eyes never once leaving his former jailer. Not even Maggie's hand smoothing over his back could ameliorate his anger.

Samara could feel Daryl's gaze on her every now and then, and it made the fine hairs on her neck stand up. If it had been up to her, she would have avoided him throughout the reminder of the day, but luck was not on her side.

Once Dale began to talk, Samara pushed aside all her heart problems and focused on her survival ones.

"Ten rifles, four shotguns, ten batons, some tasers, a lot less ammunition than I thought we had, eight more riot gears, not countin' Glenn's, a couple of pistols and some walkie-talkies."

Not enough, Samara thought as she bit her lip worriedly.

"It's not enough." Rick mirrored her train of thought. "We can't defend ourselves with this. Samara said they have guards posted at every fence, trained to use rifles. A dozen people with experience, maybe more. And if the other residents take up arms they'll be sixty, seventy people we have to push back. Don't matter if they know how to use a gun or not. The only thing they have to do is point and shoot and eventually the bullets will find a target. We don't have the weapons to do this even if we were prepared."

"Then what should we do?" Beth asked, trying not to show her discouragement at their meager standing.

"We should hit him now." Glenn stood up from his bench, startling Maggie. There was fire in his veins and he needed an outlet. "He won't be expecting it. We'll sneak back in and put a bullet in his head."

Despite the many protests, Glenn took a few large steps towards the statuesque woman who had become like a ghost to them.

"You know where his apartment is. You and I could end this tonight." There was a man shine to his eyes, brought on by his burning blood. "I'll do it myself."

"No, Glenn!" Maggie objected, but Glenn wouldn't listen. His eyes and ears were on Michonne alone.

The woman stared at him without inflection, but slowly and curtly, she nodded. Samara rose from her seat the same time Andrea did. They absolutely abhorred the sound of that. Michonne was in no condition to face that demon, not in her brittle state. Glenn's rash plan would backfire utterly and without fault.

"Out of the question." Rick intervened firmly, putting their fears to rest. "Last time we were there, we were almost killed. It's their turf. They know it better than us, so they have the advantage."

"You can't stop me."

"Think this through clearly, Glenn." Hershel reprimanded his son-in-law in that soft spoken voice of his, that despite its lightness, hid steel underneath. "T-Dog lost his life here. The men that were here, too. It isn't worth any more killin'. If that man's really on his way, we should leave."

"And go where?"

"We lived on the road all winter."

Glenn snorted. "Back when you had two legs and we didn't have Lori threatening to burst every day now."

Back and forth they argued. Stay or leave. Samara could not say they were both wrong.

"Enough!" Rick put an end to their quarrel before it escalated. "We're stayin' put. We're gonna defend this place. We're makin' a stand. Now, we need to figure out how we can get more guns."

Easier said than done. Army outposts were not something they had knowledge of, and searching through houses until they found something of value would require time they didn't have.

"Wait." Andrea looked as if the metaphorical light bulb lit up in her head. "There was a military outpost we scavenged last year, you remember?" Her eyes moved from Samara to Michonne, a small smile on her lips. "We still left a lot of guns behind."

Samara shook her head, a grimace pulling at the corners of her mouth. "They're not there anymore." Rick already knew of this piece of information, but the others didn't. Now was a good time as any, but that didn't mean it didn't make her uneasy. "I had to give the Governor something to keep me alive."

Once it dawned on them, Samara could almost hear their desolate groans chorus inside the spacious room. She shrugged hopelessly. There was nothing to be done.

"So, what do we do then?"

Rick thought heavily, but there was only one answer—

"We send people out searchin'. There's no other choice."

Not everyone was of the same mind as they groused about splitting the group up now when danger was so near. Dividing their fighting force for who knew how long might just cripple them in the end and cause the prison to fall. Their fears were justified, but someone had to bite the bullet. Without ammo they stood no chance against the Governor's reserves.

"I know where we could find more guns."

Samara blinked in wonder. The hunter took a step forward as all eyes were trained on him, eager for some encouraging news.

"Hampton."

His gaze found hers for a moment, and Samara felt a jolt struck her. _Of course…_

"…The NASCAR track." The memories came tumbling down of a happy-go-lucky Arab, his willful girlfriend and a French doctor with no knowledge of even basic English. Those people seemed so distant in her mind, that even their features shifted and blurred. It felt like years had passed since she thought of them last. "The army made an outpost there, but it's crawling with walkers. It's a death trap."

"More than you can think, but it's the only place I saw with a shitload of guns. I don't think anyone was crazy enough to try and raid that place, not since I did."

"How'd you get inside the first time?" Merle asked curiously.

"The sewers. A small group can go about undetected. If it hadn't been for those soldiers we could've gotten in and out without fuss."

"Those soldiers…" Tyreese asked warily. The last thing they needed was to pick a fight with another group. "Are they still alive?"

Daryl shook his head. "It's gonna be easy. I volunteer."

"So do I."

That brought the hairy eyeball out of the people, along with a sprinkle of disbelief.

"What?" Merle feinted hurt. "You don't trust me?"

Glenn snorted unkindly. "Does the bear shit in the woods?"

"Most likely, but that don't mean I ain't goin'. I ain't gonna try nothin'. Cross my heart and hope to die."

Merle could not be left alone with Daryl, especially at a varying distance from the prison. Samara did not trust him not to try something underhanded.

"I'll go as well."

The looks of heavy doubt she received demoralized her inside. She wasn't _that_ useless now…

"Absolutely not!" Hershel put his foot down, but Samara would not hear him even if she appreciated his concern for her well being.

"You're still recoverin'." Daryl's tone was even, not a hint of reaction to her outburst. "I don't need your injuries slowin' us down or, worse, attractin' walkers."

"My shoulder doesn't hurt as much and my hand is numb." Samara lied through her teeth. "I'm good to go. Three pairs of hands are better than two."

Daryl sighed heavily. Within seconds he reached her side and to Samara's utter surprise, caught her dislocated shoulder in a vice and gave it a firm squeeze. Samara yelped, falling to the bench as the pain blindsided her. She sucked air through gritted teeth as she hunched over herself, protective of her arm. Vaguely, she heard several women protest while Hershel's voice broke its usual softness for lashing bite.

"Healed, my ass." Daryl scoffed softly, barely a hint of remorse. "You ain't comin'."

"But—"

"I said _no_!"

He tension in the air was suffocating. The others recoiled from the fiery display, cautious of what might happen next. They didn't want the flames between the two to scorch them as well. Only one person chuckled, and Samara didn't have to turn around to know that Merle was sporting the widest shit eating grin known to man.

Samara bit her lip harshly as embarrassment flooded her system and inflamed her cheeks. She felt thoroughly humiliated, and in front of everyone, no less. Was this retaliation for what had happened earlier? If so, Daryl played a dirty game. What was worse was that everyone must think that this was a lover's spat. It couldn't be furthest from the truth. Samara just wanted to make sure the brothers would come back and not jump ship, leaving them with two fighters less. Why couldn't everyone else see the danger Merle joining in this venture posed?

"Samara, I'm sorry to say but you're in no condition to be out there." Rick cut through the tension, retaking the reins of this meeting. As well as sparing Samara any further indignity. "Daryl, Merle…you will leave tomorrow mornin' for Hampton. If you don't find anythin', come back and we'll figure out another plan. Until then, the rest of us will continue fortificatin' the prison. I don't like that the whole front of the prison is insecure and we still need to wipe out the remainin' walkers in the Tombs. We got ourselves a full day tomorrow, so you should all get some rest."

As people dispersed for their respective cells, Rick approached Samara who remained immobile on the bench.

"How—"

"I'm _fine_!" Samara hissed, unwilling to meet his gaze.

Rick sighed tiredly.

"Should I be worried about you two?"

"That's between me and him." Samara rose to her feet, still feeling the awful stinging sensation crawling over her muscles. "I'm more worried that they won't come back. That's why I wanted to go along."

The sheriff nodded, aware of her fears, but unlike her, he was not worried. "Daryl won't leave us."

"No, but his brother is capable of a lot of things."

"They'll come back. Daryl's not that weak to let his brother lead him on anymore."

"No…" Samara felt a bitter taste in her mouth, and not just because of what Daryl had done. "But Merle is physically stronger than him."

* * *

The night was alight with the fires of torches. The people of Woodbury gathered around the now defunct arena, waiting nervously for their leader to speak. The man in question was pacing relentlessly in the middle of it all, a ferocious look in his lone eye. His bandages and injuries were visible for all the world to see, prompting the people to speculate in hushed whispers the cause of it. Was it the woman that had recently joined them and now seemed to have disappeared? Merle who too was missing from their fold? Some unknown assailant? The ones that kidnapped Stevens, Alice and Martinez? So many question and no answers and the crowd was stirring in unease.

Milton watched from his place among the sidelines, his body high-strung. The strain in the air was almost smothering and he clumsily fumbled with his shirt and glasses, anything he could adjust and readjust. He probably tad tucked his shirt at least half a dozen times already. The Governor had called a meeting finally, and not even Milton was privy to what he was about to utter. But from that thunderous look about him, Milton knew it was bad.

The man finally stopped and a deafening hush settled over the masses.

"What can I say? Hasn't been a night like this since the walls were completed. And I thought we were past it. Past the days when we all sat, huddled, scared in front of the TV durin' the early days of the outbreak. The fear we all felt then, we felt it again just a couple of night ago." He looked them over, his lone eye assessing them with self-shame. "I failed you. I promised to keep you safe. Hell, look at me. I hid because I did not want you all to see what has become of me. What has been done. For that, I am sorry for frightenin' you. For keepin' silent…" He licked his dry lips, his bandaged fingers shaking slightly. "But I can't anymore. You know, I-I should tell you that we'll be okay. That we're safe. That we'll bury our dead and endure, but I won't. Because I can't. Because I'm _afraid_." A ripple stirred the people and the Governor saw their worried faces. "That's right. I'm afraid of terrorists who want what we have! Want to destroy us! And worse...because one of those terrorists..." The man's voice raised until there was no doubt to the strength in it. "Is one of our own—Merle!"

Gasps. Everyone was aghast.

Milton watched as the whispers turned into a cavalcade of noise and heightened emotions. He could not understand right from left from his position among them, the harsh sound grating on his ears. The fear in the air was cloyingly sweet, leaving a thick obstruction in the back of his throat. Milton felt like running as the negative emotions seemed to pile up higher, the Governor inciting the crowd further into pandemonium.

"The man I counted on, the man I trusted! He was in partnership with Samara! The woman I saved from those evil men. And what did she do? She repaid me by spittin' im my face! She repaid me by maimin' me and killin' Charlie! They planned it all, her and Merle. They lied and they betrayed us. They led others here and Merle let 'em in. Martinez was lucky enough to escape their grasp, but Alice and Stevens weren't."

He made a motion towards two of his soldiers and soon Milton heard it. The cries of terror and grief. And as the sea of people parted, he saw their source of despair and he wanted to balk.

Stevens' corpse was laid on the ground before all to see. Stevens had been a respected community member. Their only doctor. But now he was reduced to a rotting body with ashen skin and sunken features exposed for all eyes to bare witness. Men protested in anger. Women turned away with tears in their eyes. Some even retched from the acrid smell and putrefied sight.

Milton stared aghast at the Governor. How could he use Stevens in such a despicable manner? The man had been bitten. He died because of biters, not people. But Milton could see the way the bite on his shoulder had been concealed with layers of clothing. What was Philip doing?

"They were lied and manipulated and once those terrorists got past our walls, they shot Stevens down like an animal!" The Governor's booming voice had the same effect as thunder, rattling the soul to its very core. "They did not even have the mercy to shoot him in the head! They let him reanimate! And poor Alice…God knows what they have done with her."

No…Stevens and Alice left because they never could accept the Governor, not even after understanding all those months ago that Philip was here to stay. That his leadership would keep them all safe, despite how vicious with outside threats he could sometimes be. The doctor and nurse had never forgiven Philip for the punishment he had given them.

"These people are brutal! They are savages that would kill every last one of us, even if it was a child! They want what we have, no matter the cost!"

"No!"

People cried out in outrage. Voice after voice joined the choir opposing Merle and Samara and the people that left with them. A frenzy began to bubble in the pews and the surrounding area, bringing everyone to their feet in a unified front.

"They will come!" The Governor promised darkly, his lone eye ablaze. "They will try to take it by force, but I say no! This is our home! We raised it from the ground with our blood and tears! We've lost too many on the way to give it up! If we balk at every man that wants to take it away, we might as well just open the gates and let them all in." He turned in a circle, looking everyone in the eye resolutely. "So, I ask you, my friends—no, my _family_. What should we do in these dark times ahead?"

"Fight!"

"Defend our home!"

"Kill them!"

Milton bit his lip at the growing tied of ferocity. It was all around him, encompassing the world and turning it crimson red. He felt like fainting.

"What?" The Governor pressed them. "What you want?"

"Kill them! Kill them! Kill them!"

The Governor smiled a savage smirk as his eye drank in the sight of Woodbury calling for blood. This was different than the arena fights. This was the call to arms, the call to kill and defend what was their own. A more savage song and it was _glorious_ to the ears.

Milton could do nothing but stand beside the chanting crowd and stare in mute disbelief. A sadness washed over him as his pale eyes surveyed the masses, and saw only blood lust in their feverish eyes. Milton knew that behind this bravery hid crippling fear. Fear of losing everything dear, of seeing their family and friends die horrible deaths or suffer worse fates. The Governor used that terror and brought out the courage that only came with trembling desperation.

 _Is this what it has come to, Philip?_

But his silent question was left unheard as the Governor slurped their chants with eager gulps, drunk on power and triumph. He had no eye but only for his people as they craved the war he wanted. They were his to do as he pleased, and that was what he intended.


	47. All Scars Have Stories

She never thought navigating the wild, uncut grass of the prison would be so troublesome. The blade points reached her thighs and soaked her jeans clean through. It was still early enough that the morning dew clung to vegetation like a second shadow, and irritating enough that it left the Native with a feeling of coldness on her skin. The light breeze didn't help as it added an extra chill to her already puckered skin, but it did create a mesmerizing image in the field—an ocean of emerald ever shifting to the beat of tumultuous waves.

Ever since she had spotted the markings yesterday she had wished to venture towards it, but Hershel had caught up to her and politely steered her towards the clinic for some r&r. Samara had no more wish for it, and told the man so. Yesterday had been her last day spent in the sick bed and she would be returning to the comfort of her own cell as of now. The man relented after some heavy persuasion but only after Samara agreed not to attempt any rigorous activity for the time being. She had promised, but she could not uphold it if trouble came knocking.

The morning sun left a soft warmth on her still sore face. The bruises were healing nicely, but Samara still avoided looking in a mirror. She did not need to see the wreck her body had become to understand Hershel and Alice's trepidation. Her stay in Woodbury had left an ugly imprint on her, both in body and soul.

 _What an ugly world these times have turned out to be…_

But it was also a reminder to never trust others, not even the most demure of people. Predators lurked at every corner, and not all took the form of the undead. Woodbury had been a painful reminder of how base humans were at the core, and how easily it was to slip into madness.

Reaching the grave, Samara stepped up beside the other early bird. Axel stared forlornly at the grave next to T-Dog's, where a name was carved into the wooden cross.

 _ **Oscar.**_

A single white flower lied on the fresh earth, it's petals swaying softly with the morning breeze. The corner of Samara's lips lifted faintly. She knew that rose…

"He was a good guy, you know?" Axel's southern twang seemed to have lost some of its liveliness, leaving only a bleak despondency. "Whenever Tomas went off, Oscar always stood up for me. He was my friend. He might have done some stupid things in life, but he didn't deserve to die."

"He went out fighting." Samara wished it hadn't had to end like it did, but there was no turning back time. All good things must come to an end. Someday, she too will become one with the soil and will know no suffering anymore. "He didn't give in. We tried to escape and we almost did, but…it wasn't meant to be."

In the end, Oscar was the lucky one to escape this sad, desperate life.

"Did he suffer?"

Samara remembered the gunshot and Oscar dropping to his knees, his breath gurgling as blood clogged his lungs, drowning with no means of escape. It must have hurt like hell.

"No, it was quick." But Samara was not about to detail his death. At this point, it would accomplish nothing but more heartache, and Samara had enough of it. She curiously peered to Axel, as another memory of that night came forward. It had made her wonder briefly, but soon she had forgotten in stead of her own plight. "Do you know who Olivia and Matthew are?"

Oscar had whispered those names with his dying breath, she could still remember it vividly.

"His kids."

"He called out to them while he was dying."

Axel smiled, for once the sadness lifting off his shoulders. "It means he got to see them again. I'm happy for that. He's with them now. He's finally at peace. I hope I get to see him again once I die. Maybe even share a beer together and laugh. I'd like that."

Samara smiled lightly. While Samara was still of the mind that nothing awaited them after death, just a bottomless void lacking awareness, she still liked to believe every now and then in the more optimistic view of death. Wherever Oscar was, she hoped he found the peace they all so desperately tried to create and maintain, no matter how fragile.

Her eyes wandered over the green sea. The world was waking up as birds chirped merrily in the distance, and Samara could even hear the buzzing of bees, dutifully seeking pollen. In the distance, the deer pen came in view and to Samara's great surprise, she spied not one but three creatures peacefully foraging.

"The deer…It gave birth?"

Axel nodded, his gaze joining hers. "About two weeks ago. Two fawns—boy and girl. Cutest things I've ever seen."

She hadn't believed to be capable, but Samara let the biggest smile she had grace her lips. She hadn't believed the deer would live long enough or even be able to keep its fawns alive, but the proof was right before her as two little creatures sprinted after their mother without a care of their captor's problems.

 _At least something good came out in spite of everything._

"The deer likes Daryl most, even if Beth takes care of them. Shies away from the others. I used to see him every now and then, feedin' it. Eats right out of his hand." He chuckled lowly. "Darnest thing I've ever seen."

 _Yeah…_

She could almost envision him, standing among the three animals, at peace with his soul. Nothing could touch him in those moments. Not their sorrow or grief, anger or despair. Everyone in trying times found their own little corner of paradise where the outside world could not penetrate. It was in those moments that one could recharge to face the problematic world with renewed strength and unbending determination.

"Your man…" Axel's pale eyes were almost lost in the glare of the rising sun. "You scared for him?"

"He's not my—" Samara squeezed her eyes tight, letting his mistake slide. It seemed everyone had formed their own opinion of the two of them and this one by far she disliked the most. "Yes, but more because of his brother than what awaits him in Hampton."

"That Merle…" Axel frowned, clearly off put by the appearance of the older Dixon. "I've met inmates like him before. Didn't trust them then, won't trust them now."

 _Smart choice._

Samara turned as she heard a door open in the distance, its corroded hinges squeaking. On the basketball court she could see several figures walking and talking among themselves. She knew it was almost time. Time for the brothers to depart, and she dreaded it. Her heart clenched tightly, her fears curdling her blood.

* * *

"You go in, you find what you can carry and you get out. Don't linger and don't try anythin' if it's too dangerous."

Daryl nodded, already aware of these matters as he walked alongside Rick. He had everything he needed for the journey and it was barely past eight. They were on good time. Once inside Hampton, they could not linger as the threat of Woodbury was still atop them. With luck, he and Merle would be back before nightfall.

His brother was waiting for him in the sturdy jeep he had arrived at the prison in. He preferred waiting inside than seeing the others give their farewells to Daryl. Almost everyone was gathered in the courtyard to see him off and offer their luck. He didn't believe in luck, but Daryl would not shun their kind words, knowing it put their fears to rest.

Carol and Dale both hugged him, and even Beth gave him a short hug, wishing him well with a shy smile. Tyreese shook his hand, and Glenn told him solidly to come back in one piece.

But the one he wished to embrace—to at least touch before leaving—stood remote from the group, watching from behind dark, rounded lenses. There was nothing he could do about it, no matter how much his body wished for him to stride over and feel her smooth hair slide through his fingers or the softness of her skin. But for now, he just had to contend himself with watching from afar…as he was used to.

"Good luck, Daryl."

Rick's words brought him back from where his mind wandered as it always did when it concerned _her_. The man extended his arm and Daryl clasped it firmly. He would not disappoint this man. Daryl will come back with the guns and ammunition they so desperately needed.

Without another word, the hunter turned from his friends and caught a glimpse of hawkish blue watching displeased from the side mirror of the car. No doubt he would be hearing that displeasure articulated soon enough and Daryl hoped he had the patience to suffer through it. Merle still had a lot more to say and Daryl knew he was just _dying_ to.

As he started the car, he gave one last peek in the mirror. She stood as motionless as ever, no hint of what went on in her head as her features remained carved in stone.

With a tightening of his jaw, Daryl hit the accelerator and kept his eyes firmly forward.

* * *

As the day passed, Samara helped with the fortifications as much as her injuries allowed her. There was an acute anxiety in the air and not all of it came from her. Everyone was on edge, fearing every shadow and unknown rustle in the grass. They should be scared, Samara thought. The Governor would show no pity if the prison fell and Samara wondered in her darkest thoughts what she would do if it came to that conclusion. She would not be taken alive, that was for sure. Either she will die fighting or put a bullet through her head. Anything was preferable to being captured by that man, a second time no less.

 _Please gods, don't let it come to that_. She did not even want to think what would happen to the others, those that would still hold breath.

And Daryl…She feared he would not come back. That Merle would stop him by any means necessary, or worse, that he would actually manage to convince him that returning was a waste of time. She wouldn't put it past him to whisper poison into Daryl's ear until there was nothing left but venom coursing through his veins.

It took all her willpower to stay silent when the brothers departed. She wanted to shout and rage, to yell out at him not to go, but her lips had remained sealed. The only wretched thing she could have done was watch despondently as Daryl got in the car and started the engine. When the vehicle had finally gone out of sight, Samara had panted like a heat-stroked dog. She hadn't even noticed at the time that she had stopped breathing as concentrated as she had been on her dark thoughts.

Rick had tried once again to reassure her frazzled mind that Daryl will return, but she had been deaf to his words. The only thing she had been able to focus on were the dozen scenarios that rolled across her vision like a reel of photographs.

Her eyes perused over the forms of Rick, Andrea, Tyreese, Sasha and Glenn. They were in the courtyard, discussing over possible strategies and additional defenses.

"Those wooden pallets we found…" Glenn started as he wiped his forehead of sweat. "I was thinking of putting them on the bridge between the buildings. Make cover for shooters. Maybe even armor the _cage_."

The cage being the fence enclosed entrance to their cell block. It seemed like a sound idea. The cage would be the last bastion before Woodbury could get inside. If they armored it enough, they could have a sniper inside, picking off targets with little chances of getting shot in return.

"Wood can only stop bullets so far. We need somethin' else on top to fortify it. Maybe if we could find some bricks, load them into sacks." Andrea looked to Samara, no doubt remembering their farm battlements. "That worked before."

Samara frowned. Bricks were sturdy enough to stop bullets from a normal firearm, but if the Governor came with army types—which he will—Samara was doubtful. Maybe if they added cement to them. Maybe…

"We could use the tables from the mess hall." Sasha added to Andrea's idea. "They're sturdy enough."

The group agreed. The tables were made of durable material, enough so that angry inmates would be unable to bend or destroy prison property. But would they be able to stop bullets? Samara was unsure. Their outer defenses were weak. If push came to shove, they would have to barricade themselves inside the prison and rethink strategy. Their only chance was to scare Woodbury long enough for them to weaken their resolve and break rank, but frightening the likes of Martinez and Shumpert was not such an easy task as it sounded. But if the Governor came with the civilians…Perhaps they stood a chance.

But to startle these people, they would have to put up a relentless, substantial offense.

"We need to find other places good enough for sentries and snipers." Samara's eyes looked over the high places of the prison. "The watch towers are too obvious. They're the first I would take down if I were the Governor."

If the man had grenades or snipers, he'd be smart to incapacitate the towers first.

As for sentries…They had to post one near the main road right where the turn on the gravel path was made for the prison. They had to have a heads up for when the opposition rolled in, and not just be caught with their pants down.

So…a lookout on the road, a sniper on the cage, and…where else? The guard offices, perhaps?

"Rick…" Andrea's uneasy voice broke Samara's concentration. The woman kept herself strong, but Samara could see the minute crack in her mask that spoke of fear. "What happens if the prison falls? We need an escape plan."

The sheriff nodded knowingly. "I thought of it too and I think regrouping at the farm would be our best option. If the prison does fall, those that are still breathin' need to either lose themselves in the forest or go through the Tombs. Glenn, Maggie, Tyreese and I cleaned up most of it, but we came upon a new discovery. A part of the back building is collapsed and with it, the fence bent. It's our best shot of leavin' the prison if we're pinned down inside."

"You said there were walkers in the Tombs." Samara pointed out the flaw in his plan.

The man sighed. "And there still are, but what other choice we got? We'll just have to fight through them."

Not exactly encouraging, Samara thought. She would rather take her chances in the forest, considering her injuries.

"When the time comes, I want Hershel, Carl and Lori to stay out of this fight." Rick looked to all of them inflexibly, unwilling to hear any opposition on this particular decision. "I can't risk them gettin' caught in the crossfire."

"Your son is a good marksman." Andrea pointed out. She herself had taught him how to use a sniper rifle and to her pleasant surprise, the boy had turned out to be a rather talented gunman.

"He's a _child_." Rick stressed, a shadowy glare on his brow.

"And we need every able body we can have, no matter the age." Samara quipped. They could not turn down a person capable of handling a gun because they were, what? Thirteen? It was old enough in Samara's books.

"I said _no_ , and that's final."

If the burning glower wouldn't put the matter to rest, then his arctic tone did. Samara bowed out of this branch of discussion. She did promise to follow his lead, and if this is what he considered best, then she will listen, even if she did silently protest.

Everyone seemed to have the same mind, as they nodded in agreement. Hershel was handicapped, Lori was pregnant and Carl was a child. They had no place on the battlefield. Besides, Lori needed Hershel near in case she unexpectedly went into labor and Alice would not do. The young woman was better suited to help the others on the field in case they got injured.

"We have other problems." Sasha spoke, remembering Dale's list from yesterday. "If we're to be under siege, we barely have the food to last it."

"We've been here before. We'll be all right."

"That's when it was just us." Glenn grumbled with a knowing look thrown at Rick. "Before there was a snake in the nest."

Rick sighed exasperated, not the first time hearing of this. "We're not going through this again."

"Seriously, Rick, I don't think Merle living here is really gonna fly."

"I can't kick him out!" The sheriff snapped, tired of Glenn's constant badgering on the subject of Merle.

"I wouldn't ask you to live with Shane after he tried to kill you."

Samara mentally face-palmed. That might not have been the wisest thing to say, but it was a good comparison to the Korean's situation. If Shane had still been alive, Rick would not have been able to breathe the same air as him and the sheriff recognized that truth. He too would have wanted him gone as far away as possible, or better yet dead.

Rick looked just about to throttle the young man, but kept his fingers curled at his sides. It was better to end this stalemate. They did not have the luxury to argue about Merle of all people, right now.

"Merle has military experience." Samara rasped, staring down both tense parties. "He may be erratic, but don't underestimate his loyalty to his brother."

Merle would not part from his brother. If Daryl fought, then he would as well. Or at least make sure Daryl didn't wind up dead.

"What if we solve both problems at once?" Glenn looked to all of them, the metaphorical light bulb flashing above his head. "Deliver Merle to the Governor as a bargaining chip. Give him his traitor, maybe declare a truce."

"The Governor will kill Merle. Daryl won't allow it." Samara shot down his idea without a second thought. There would be no truce, not after everything. Besides, she knew enough that the Governor wouldn't stop his rampage even if they were stupid enough to go through with this plan.

"Maybe you can try to make Daryl see reason." Sasha eyed Samara keenly. "You two—"

Her meter had run up its peak and burst, spraying sizzling sparks everywhere. It was bad enough that Samara was constantly doubting that the brothers would return at all, but now she had to suffer these insinuations after she recently went through a great deal of heartache. It felt like they were just dancing tauntingly on the ashes of what could have been. What she spurned.

"There is no us two, goddammit!" She burst like an out of control valve, glaring hatefully at everything in sight. "Get that out of your heads! We fucked a few times! That's it!"

With a swirl, Samara left their side, unwilling to hear anymore on this topic. There was no _them_. There never was and never will be. She could not be like Maggie and Glenn, lovingly enjoying each other for as long as time permitted it, knowing that one day it would all end in tears. She could not just put another ring on her finger and vow 'until death do us part'. Samara would not allow herself to be caught up in that spider's web again.

What sane person would want to go through that _heart-shattering_ grief once more?

* * *

Lori breathed in deeply just as Hershel instructed. She sat atop one of the many beds, her belly exposed for the older man to listen. The cold stethoscope brought out goose pimples on her pale skin as it moved from one side to the other with Hershel concentrated intensely on his task.

The woman was scared. She hadn't felt the baby kick since yesterday, and so close to her due date she feared losing him. Him…Lori didn't actually know if the baby was a boy or a girl, but she couldn't find it in her heart to call the baby 'it'. The feeling was too unnatural. This creature growing inside her was not an object, it was a part of her that she loved with the fierceness of a lioness.

This baby was hope. A chance to start anew, and maybe fix the vast rift that gaped cripplingly between her and Rick. She could not lose him. He and Carl and this baby were all that she had left. They were her only rocks in this storm called life. Without them, it wouldn't matter if she lived or died.

"Well? How is everythin'?" She nervously asked the veterinarian.

"It sounds good. Heart's beatin' strongly." The older man took off the cool stethoscope and beamed kindly at the mother to-be, reassuring her worries. "I've got no reason to believe anythin' ain't alright. There's been nothin' but good signs."

Lori exhaled in relief. A heavy burden seemed to lift from her shoulders as she lovingly stroked her inflated belly.

 _You're alright. Everythin's gonna be alright._

"When are you gonna do the C-section?" The Kentucky woman had been feeling impatient for the past week now. They were too close to her due date and she did not want to have the baby while they were under attack. "Please, tell me it's soon. I'm so sick of bein' pregnant it's not even funny."

"Two days from now is the best time. I don't wanna strain you further and I think we've waited long enough."

"Finally." The woman sighed, on one side comforted but on the other apprehensive that many things could happen in the course of two days. She would be riding out these days with a heavy heart and jittery nerves. "I'm tired of carryin' around this bowlin' ball in my stomach."

Hershel chuckled, understanding to the woman's plight. After the cold months on the road, after everything they had gone through, it must feel like shedding a heavy burden. "Are you scared?"

Lori bit her lips, gazing down at her stomach. Her fingers pressed slightly into her skin, almost wishing she could reach inside and touch her child to sooth and comfort it. To reassure him that everything was going to be alright, even if she herself was scared.

"A bit."

She would be a fool not to. Her first birth had been wrecked with problems leaving natural labor out of the question. If she did, she would die. Cutting her open was the only answer and they were short of a proper hospital with proper equipment as well as the experienced human doctor necessary to perform the C-section. Her only hope was a retired veterinarian, a stranger with even less experience, and Carol who was learning from books. That did not instill much faith in her.

"Don't be." Hershel patted her reassuringly on the knee. "I've been practicin' for months now and I'm competent everythin' will go smoothly. Carol and Alice will be there to help me as well."

Lori tried to call forth a smile, but it just ended up in a strange grimace. She could not mask her unease even if she wanted to.

"What happens if I die?"

That was the second worst thing that could happen. Lori was content to die as long as the child lived, but if she died along with it, then all was lost. Her family would take her passing hard, but they were strong and they would pull through together. For the sake of the baby, if nothing else. As much as the thought of never seeing Carl and Rick again or being able to hold her baby terrified and saddened her, if it meant delivering her daughter or son alive and healthy, Lori would gladly give up her life for the sake of the child's. At least then she knew she could pass on with her heart whole and her soul at peace.

"You won't." Hershel peered at her determinedly, but Lori knew that if something unforeseen happened, it would be out of his hands. "These are just your fears talkin' with how close you are to birth. Have some faith in me, Lori."

"I'm sorry." She felt a bit ashamed at her skepticism, but it couldn't be helped. She knew they were the pre-birth anxieties, but she still could not keep them from eating away at her heart and even keeping her awake at night. For weeks now she had been constantly afraid for the baby and herself. In these times, nothing was certain to turn out the way it was planned. These were the pains of being a mother. Constant worry was a box that needed to be ticked for each woman ready to have a child.

"Don't be." Hershel took neither of her doubts to heart, knowing she was only fearing for the life inside her. "I understand. I would be nervous too if I was left in the hands of an animal doctor, but natural birth and C-sections are not that different from animals. Everythin' will go fine."

This time, Lori managed to slip on a small smile. She tried to make herself believed that everything will go smoothly and that soon, she'll be holding her baby and cooing over it with nothing but pure joy in her heart, but the shadows loomed ever so close, whispering dark things.

As much as Lori wished for the contrary, she knew the baby will be born with passionate brown eyes and not calm blue like Carl's. The woman did not need a DNA test to know who the child belonged to and Rick was _painfully_ aware of that fact.

She had been thinking of him these past few days…Shane. How one moment of weakness on her part led to that faithful night on the farm. If she had known from the beginning that it would end in such tragedy, she would have never even looked at Shane. If she had known that he too would disappoint her completely, she would have rebuked him on the first night. Perhaps…she had loved Shane for a brief period of time. For making her feel wanted, sensual and—on top of all—a _woman_ , and not just a mother and wife. But then, the passion dulled and she was left with cold reality—Shane was nothing more than another man that saw her as a trophy. He had not loved her, not honestly. Shane had wanted Rick's life and every aspect of it. The house, the child, the job, the wife. Everything he didn't have. Rick had made himself a respected member of the community—both before and after—while Shane skulked in the shadow, always as his second. One can only take so much before they crack from the pressure. But in the end, his death, Rick's anger and humiliation and even Carl's distant behavior were all a result of _her_ choices. Shane's blood stained her hands, not Rick's. She might as well have shot him herself.

It had been… _kind_ of Rick to proclaim the baby as his own. Lori knew her husband would care and protect the child as his own, but neither could ever forget—not even if Lori lied to herself daily—that it was Shane's and not Rick's baby. Sometimes, she wished she hadn't been so cowardly as to throw away the pills. Life would have been easier if she had aborted back then. She and Rick would no longer be bound together, made to suffer over her mistake, and perhaps they could have slowly moved on with their separate lives. Maybe even found a fresh start with someone else.

Or perhaps…Lori should have acted much sooner, before mention of a virus ever even appeared on the news. She and Rick had been on the rocks months before the world ended. It had been inevitable. They both had been high school sweethearts with Rick being the only man she had ever known intimately before Shane, a decade and a half later. Worse, right after finishing school, they had married and, soon after, produced Carl. Lori had never had the time to grow, to find her own path and neither had Rick. They had been madly in love and had rushed headlong into marriage at eighteen without a single thought on how the world spun and how fickle it could be. Her mother had warned her against it. That she would regret it years later, and she had been grudgingly right. After the passion dimmed and the agitation of a baby became a normality, life grew boring and repetitive. Working in a dead-end job in the same town that you had been born in, never once giving themselves the opportunity of what was beyond their little world called Cynthiana.

Lori remembered that as a child she had dreamt of becoming a clothing designer. Perhaps, if she hadn't married she could have accomplished that dream and lived a totally opposite life than the mundane, quiet one as a school teacher married to a small town sheriff. In the end, she would never know what could have been, but she dreamt it. Oh, how she did. Day and night, with her eyes wide open or closed, each fantasy more grand and adventurous than the last. But as the years passed, those illusions began to fester her heart and poison her household. She knew Rick had been content with his life. He never had been a complicated man to begin with. Her husband had never strived towards greater ambition, but settled with what was at hand. As long as it put food on table, held a roof over their head and gave his family peace, he was more than pleased with it. But that did not mean Lori had to be content as well.

Rick had been blind, or better yet said, he had chosen not to see. That had been _his_ folly. Rick kept his resolve that everything was alright between them when it was clearly degenerating with each argument. He would not give up and admit that something was wrong, that there was a problem that needed resolved. Would not admit that their family was crumbling and that the only thing that kept them together was their son.

Rick would not talk, would not confide in her of what he felt, what he thought. Pretending that everything was going to be alright had never been the greatest problem solver, so why had Rick stubbornly refused to see the cracks?

There had been times when she had _hated_ him for keeping her chained in that town. For never once agreeing to move to a different state and start fresh. Maybe even for her to find a goal in life—other than mother—that actually made her feel accomplished. His doubts and his constancy had kept them firmly rooted in Kentucky, a ghost state where nothing ever happened.

Lori sniffled. _Did wishin' a different life for myself be such an appallin' want? Did that make me a wretched monster?_

Was that why she had been punished so thoroughly and nastily? Had she wished for something too great for someone as insignificant as her? Lori had viewed this plague as her second chance and just when she had thought she had grasped it, it took up in flames and scorched her being, reminding her to stay in her place. Kick after kick, it punished her until she was left with another man's child in her belly, a broken marriage and a son that would not speak. Her hands, fate's, Rick's…they all blurred and became one. There was no single person at fault anymore and for that Lori _hated_. Others, the world, Shane, Rick and most of all _herself_.

But even through all the pains and betrayals, through the anger and loneliness, she still loved her husband. Maybe not as before, when they were still happy and without a care in the world, but enough that she would be devastated if he died. Rick had been the only person she had known longer than her parents. The one that had protected and cared for her throughout the good and bad of their years together. She still cared deeply for him and always will, but they could never return to what they once were. Their love had reached its finale months ago and now only duty as mother and father kept them together.

Lori wished that one day, they both could find the happiness that they deserved. Nobody should have to die lonely and miserable, wrecked with doubts and guilt. They all had sinned and erred, but that did not mean those mistakes would have to hang over their heads for all eternity, keeping them in the pits of desolation. At least, in these times were life could end in one swift moment, they could enjoy it at its fullest, be it through love or laughter or peace.

 _I just wish…_

* * *

"Over there."

Daryl passed on the binoculars to Merle. They were atop a small building a distance away from the race track, surveying the path before them. So far, they had encountered only a few walkers, and he neither heard nor saw a hint of the hoard he tackled last in this town. For now, everything was going smoothly and he hoped it would remain that way. Daryl did not have the patience to deal with another throng of undead or spirited group of soldiers. He just wanted to go in and out.

His eyes moved towards the man beside him. Merle had so far behaved, following Daryl silently. The hunter would be lying if he said he had not expected _something_ out of his older brother. A protest, a snide remark, but the man kept his council to his own self. At least, for the time being. Daryl knew that sooner or later Merle would talk and he already had an inkling of what about. His older brother could be relentless when he wanted to, and predictable.

Merle whistled as he lowered the binoculars. "Never thought NASCAR tracks were that huge. They look bigger in real life than TV. How'd you find this place, anyway?"

"Me and Samara. We came here before."

"Oh?" Merle smirked lecherously. "A little bit of alone time, huh?"

Daryl glared, uncomfortable with his brother's lewd remarks. He hadn't forgotten how much a pain Merle could be whenever Daryl entangled himself with a woman, even for one night. Those memories had persisted throughout his life, turned now into an instant reaction. "It wasn't like that. Back then, we—we didn't get along. I was just tryin' to make sure she didn't wind up dead."

And Daryl knew that if he hadn't decided to accompany her then, she would have never returned to the farm. In the end, even with how Hampton turned out, he had made the right call.

"From the goodness of your heart, I don't doubt." Merle snorted, skeptical to the bone.

Daryl scowled slightly. He did not need to hear this. With a swift turn, the younger brother picked up the foul smelling duffel bag and fled back inside the building to descend to the ground floor. They had lingered long enough in one place and the NASCAR track was awaiting them.

"Tell me, brother." Merle said once he joined Daryl outside in the heavy silence of the town. Only their hushed voices and light steps could be heard as not even a bird chirped, adding more momentum to the ghost town around them. "What craziness came over you in thinkin' that that there woman would be good for you?"

Internally, the young hunter groaned. He did not need this conversation, not right now. He had to be focused on their task ahead.

"I ain't talkin' about this. Not with you."

"Funny thing, that." Merle scoffed with amusement. "The Indian said the same damn thing."

Daryl paused, nervous. "…What did you tell her?"

The many things Merle could have said and the majority of them were not at all flattering. Was that one of the reasons why she rejected him? Had Merle done the same thing he always did whenever he had a woman?

Merle shrugged, unaware of his brother's internal struggle. "Just found it funny that you'd go for her. I get it. She ain't quite like the girls you had before. Must've been somethin' new for you. Like a shiny new toy you never had the money to buy when we were kids."

That _stung_.

"She ain't a toy."

Daryl faced the path ahead, unwilling to look at his brother anymore. He did not want Merle to see his anxiety. The need to bite on his thumb was great, but he knew Merle would latch onto that particular habit with vengeance.

"No, she's more like a gun. Remember what happened the first time I gave you a gun? You almost knocked yourself out."

Yes, he did remember. _Painfully_ so. It had been an embarrassing moment for him, and Merle had found it wildly comical and never failed to poke fun at the memory of it. In Daryl's defense, he had been just a boy no older than fifteen. Arrogance and stupidity had made him aim the gun single-handedly and the force of the ricochet had the gun hit him right in the forehead. The red mark it left lasted a few days to his utter mortification.

"Guns are nice to look at, pet and hold, but one wrong move and you'll shoot your foot off." Merle smirked in dark amusement. "Or your face."

"Stop tryin' to make her seem _ugly_." Daryl scowled, despite hearing the truth in Merle's words. But his brother did not know everything. "You don't know her. You haven't seen all her sides. I _have_. You think I don't know what she was doin' back when I let you out? She's tryin' to push me away again. I know her better than she thinks."

It had taken him a while to calm down from his fury, but the revelation came to him immediately. Samara _hated_ to be happy. She seemed to have a tendency to remain in misery, brought on by herself or others. Her mind was too warped in the ugliness of the world to think otherwise. Daryl understood why she had hid the truth. She spared him the agony of being left in the dark about his brother's fate. It was better for him to think that Merle was out there somewhere than dead in a totaled car or undead. That had not been cruelty, but a kindness in Samara's eyes.

—She had spared him the pain because she _cared_ in her own strange way.

Eventually, she'll come to him. Samara just needed time to straighten out her head and Daryl was patient enough to wait. He could not force her, lest he scare her off for good. Whatever happened in Woodbury had screwed her up emotionally and she still had not managed to grasp the rock in the storm. He could have been that for her, but it was probably too much to ask. So, he'll wait, for as long as it took. They _had_ to talk. To reach either an end or a promise. Daryl would not go further with this erratic relationship they had without a few clear lines.

"You never listen, Daryl." Merle shook his head, exasperated. "Women bring nothin' but misery. This one as well. I'd understand if you just wanted to wet your dick, but you went too far. She ain't never gonna make you happy. She has _none_ in her."

Daryl's heart clenched painfully, fearing the truth in that.

"Can we stop talkin' about Samara and concentrate on what we have to do? Damn!" Daryl barked louder than needed. Merle's ominous words were agitating him when he needed to be calm and collected, lest he lose his life.

For once Merle listened and Daryl thanked god for that small mercy. Silently, they weaved through the back alleys and took down the walkers in their path, never once making more sound than necessary. True hunters on pursuit. It had been quite a while since both had been able to venture out in such a manner that it almost felt like coming home. This was a familiarity that would never change, no matter how long they were apart. They stepped into old habits as smoothly as slipping on a glove.

It was good to have his brother back. Merle might be an asshole, but he was a part of Daryl, and Daryl had no intention of spliting again, not forcefully at least.

"Can't believe I've never been here before." Merle said as they crossed a main street, eyeing with hunger the bars and joints of the town.

"There ain't nothin' to see." Daryl grumbled as he kept his eyes sharp for dangers. "Just walkers and corpses. It ain't that peachy."

"I mean before everythin'."

Daryl snorted, feeling a tinge of cynicism of his tongue. "Like we had a chance to."

"What's got your panties all up in a bundle?" Merle scowled, displeased with his brother's sullen attitude. "We're out here, on the road. No asshole givin' us orders or women yappin' in our ears. We're free men. Just the two of us, like it always should be."

"Free…" That one word had never once failed to leave Daryl bitter. Even now at the end of the world, no such thing existed. "We ain't never been free, brother. And besides," Daryl gave him a sharp stare. "We're goin' back."

"We don't have to."

Daryl scowled.

"Oh, come on, brother. What's there to go back to?" Merle frowned, his annoyance intensifying with Daryl's stubbornness. "Right about now, the Governor's probably hostin' a housewarmin' party where's he gonna bury what's left of your pals."

"Why do you hate the place so much? We got food. We got shelter. Even a pot to piss in."

"Because it ain't no damn party for me."

"Everyone will get used to each other." The group just needed time and Merle had to curb his attitude. Tone it down by half. That was a task Daryl would have to work on relentlessly.

"They're all dead." Merle stated apathetically. "Makes no difference."

Daryl shook his head and walked away, knowing better than to start an argument. They had a job to do and standing around, growling at each other wouldn't speed it up. With a few twists and turns, they come upon the manhole he and Omid had used. It remained uncovered just as they had left it, the putrid stench wafting out like vapors.

"We gotta go through _that_?" Merle said as he coughed and wafted a hand in front of his nose.

The smell was horrible, worse than he remembered. The duffel bag was roses compared to the sewer. It made Daryl's eyes water as he switched to breathing through his mouth.

"Come on."

Merle grimaced in disgust as he followed his brother into the rancid darkness.

* * *

Merle gasped once his head breached the surface. His older brother coughed and spat as he crawled out of the hole and sat on his hands and knees, dry heaving. Daryl was in no better shape as he had actually retched, his hands trembling against his knees. That had been a horrible experience, one of the worst in his life. Not even death and blood could compare to that godawful smell.

"Goddamn, that stinks!" Merle spat through coarse coughs. "Ain't even worth comin'!"

"Shh! Keep your voice down!"

They might be in the lower levels of the track—the boiler room—but that did not mean they were alone. Walkers crawled everywhere, even in the shadows, and attracting their attention could spell their doom.

Once they regained their bearings, the brothers walked quietly through the darkened maintenance area. It was pitch black save for their flashlight illuminating the way. A claustrophobic dread surrounded them as they passed through the narrow hallways, dodging pipes and scattered debris. It wouldn't be long until they reached the garages where the cars had their pit stops and from there…the open track.

They had lost time, traveling from one pit stop to the other, searching for that one with the open garage. Rising up the metal shutters manually would make too much noise that they did not need. Once they found their breach, both brothers perused the rally track with trepidation. Just as Daryl remembered it, it was crawling with walkers. Not as many as he remembered, but enough to give them pause. The undead stood unmoving, having no incentive to motivate them into movement. For all intents and purposes, they looked more like statues, giving off an air of deceptiveness.

"There's too many." Merle hissed as his blue eyes narrowed on their lifeless enemies.

"That's why I brought these along." Daryl settled down the stinky duffel bag and opened it to reveal its contents—walker intestines. His first task upon reaching Hampton had been securing protection. No way would he go through a throng of walkers without armor, and these pieces of rotted organs were the best in the field.

"Aw, hell." Merle grimaced, his thoughts forming revolting ideas. "You're not gonna do what I think you want to do."

"Got no other choice. It's the only way we can walk passed them without notice."

"Fuck!" His older brother looked with dismay at the undead parts, understanding their necessity, but unwilling to don them. "What the hell am I doin' here?"

The brothers began smearing blood and gore on their bodies, until they were covered from head to toe in walker bits and pieces. Merle gagged while Daryl barely coughed. He knew the smell all too well.

Daryl had never thought he would have to repeat this 'walk of death' ever again. Once had been enough for him and relieving this nightmare—his insides high-strung from the intensity of the danger they were in—left him a chaotic mess. His brother was worse as he stared at each walker with wide, edgy eyes, his prosthetic never far away from flashing at the first sign of recognition in their milky eyes.

Slowly, the minutes dragged painfully on as they advanced vehemently calm through the hoard, their target located in the center of the stadium. The many tents remained still upright despite the months that have passed since civilization had ceased.

Reaching the tents, Merle guided Daryl to the supply tent. The man had been in the army for a short period of time, but he still remembered the things he had been taught—one of them was positioning of a base. Inside, cases of ammunition were left untouched while rifles littered the ground to Daryl's greatest relief. They had a chance now.

Soundlessly, the brothers collected as much as the bags they brought could carry. It was almost too much as their bodies strained under the added weight, but they needed to endure. This was only a pinch compared to what would happen if they were caught unprepared against Woodbury. So, Daryl shouldered the weight with pursed lips and stern eyes. This was their salvation and he was the one tasked to deliver it in one piece. He would not fail.

The journey back was grueling as the weapons hunched their bodies over. Once on the other side of the track, they sat on the ground, panting like dogs as sweat dribble down their skin in droves. Daryl's body shook from the strain he had been put under, and his shoulders were numb. Merle wasn't in any better shape as he laid sprawled on the warm concrete, his chest rising and lowering rapidly.

"Can we go now?" The older Dixon asked between exhausted breaths.

As much as Daryl wished to, they couldn't.

"We need to go back again." Daryl informed his brother grudgingly. He too did not relish the thought, but it was a needed sacrifice. "There's still more ammo we left behind. We're gonna need it."

Merle groaned wretchedly, mirroring Daryl's silent plight. He almost wished he had never remembered Hampton…

* * *

It was past five when they finally finished with their task and by that time, both Dixon brothers were dirty, sweaty and thoroughly exhausted. They resembled their undead neighbors more with each venture back through the sewer and they sure as hell smelled like them. Several times they had to stop and remain motionless on the track as walkers would sometimes break their stupor and start shuffling around aimlessly. Those were the nightmarish moments, leaving neither of the brothers unable to move or even blink as they observed the walkers with trepidation. Worse was when lone undead would come sniffing. Daryl could not possibly begin to explain how much he prayed that Merle wouldn't lose his nerve and start hacking away, alerting the other biters. All in all, it had been a difficult and nerve-wracking endeavor that left both brothers physically and mentally drained.

Daryl and Merle had smuggled more than enough bags out of the Atlanta Motor Speedway. But even as their limbs threatened to fall and their tempers hung by a thread, they still had much work ahead. Transporting the bags to the faraway car would take grueling time and effort as they had to go back and forth several times to retrieve all their bounty.

Daryl sat with his forehead stuck to the steering wheel. His knuckles were white from the force he applied on the leather of the wheel. He was beyond stress and exhaustion, venturing into an eerie numbness. Even his mind was blank, static only present. Daryl wanted nothing more than to sleep and forget this day had ever happened and no doubt his brother felt the same as Merle stared vacantly out the window. He hadn't heard a word from him in hours now, both losing the will to converse and using only hand signs and calls.

"I never wanna do that again, Daryl." Merle said hollowly, his gaze even on his brother. "We're gonna need a new car cause this one ain't never gonna be rid of the stink. Burn our clothes too."

The younger Dixon nodded fullheartedly. They would need a good scrub down with steaming hot water.

"Once we get back to the prison."

"Brother…"

Daryl knew that tone and he internally winced. He could not deal with Merle's constant badgering, not after they just went through hell and back. He just wanted silence and the familiarity of the prison and—

"We should just keep on drivin'. Leave Rick to his war. It don't concern us."

"For the last time, I ain't ditchin' them." For the moment, Daryl kept his already fried nerves to a halt, but he was dangerously on edge. if Merle kept pestering him on this subject, it was bound to end ugly.

With a flick of his fingers, Daryl started the car and drove out of Hampton, effectively silencing their conversation. He did not want to hear further on what Merle had to say. The thought of abandoning his people never once crossed his mind. Leaving the prison with them all he would do, but splitting ways was not optional unless his hands were tied. Too much had happened for him to just leave now. As much as Merle was family, so were they and that would not change in the near future.

Half an hour into their drive and they stopped for some respite. Merle relieved himself against a tree and Daryl drank deeply from a water bottle, careful not to touch the rim with his soiled hands. As ever, the world was silent around them. Daryl would think he would have gotten used to this total silence after all this time, but it still managed to unnerve him. Even the animals and birds had grown eerily quiet.

"Why won't you listen?" Daryl broke out of his stupor as Merle joined his side, wiping his hands on his jeans. "I'm just thinkin' about us. About our lives. Nothin' good will come out of fightin' the Governor. You don't know him like I do."

"I know enough not to abandon the others when they need me."

"Is that somethin' your sheriff taught you, huh? Too bad you couldn't learn that sooner."

Cerulean eyes narrowed with hot anger. Daryl understood _clearly_ what Merle insinuated and he had had enough. These past few days had taken its toll on his psychic, and the events of today had been the cherry on top.

"Man, I told you I went back for you!" Daryl threw the bottle away, spraying water all over the heated pavement. His anger was visible in his contorted features and snapping tone. "You weren't there! I didn't cut off your hand, neither. You did that. Way before they locked you up on that roof. You asked for it!"

A bitter truth to swallow, but one nonetheless. If Merle hadn't been such an asshole back then, hadn't argued and belittled at every turn, he would have never been left behind. He wouldn't have had a reason to saw off his own hand or join Woodbury. All this mess could have been averted if only Merle had just _conformed_ to their new lives.

But Merle could see none of that. There was righteous anger, indignation and betrayal written all over his petrified features. Daryl knew what Merle thought—that his own brother was shunning him like all the rest, but it was far from the truth. Daryl was just laying out the truth that Merle refused to hear because of pride and ego.

"You know what's funny to me? You and the sheriff are like this now, right?" He crossed his fingers tightly, staring his brother down with bitter vengeance. "I bet you a penny and a fiddle of gold that you never told him that we were plannin' on robbin' that camp blind."

Some of the anger left Daryl, replacing it with shame.

"It didn't happen." He said softly, almost afraid of being heard even miles away from any human contact. Sometimes Daryl would wonder where he would be right now if they had gone through with that plan. He'd probably remained unchanged, maybe even worse and that thought sickened him.

"Yeah, it didn't 'cause I wasn't there to help you." Merle sneered, showing his teeth like a baleful bear.

"What, like when we were kids?" Daryl bit back, remembering all those horrible times he had been left on his own—to deal with his sad life, his ever cantankerous father, and growing up without a goal to strive towards or even a sympathetic hand. "Who left who then?"

There had been nobody for him to lean on. Nobody to talk to. Nobody to assure him it would be alright even when it wasn't…No one to protect him against his father's wrath. His brother had only been a passing visitor, always slipping through his grasp, while his childhood and teenage years had been spent living in an endless hell, playing on survival mode ever since their mother passed away in the fire. Life in their family had never been the same after. Not for him, not for Merle and, most certainly, not for his father.

He had been just a kid. A kid scared out of his mind and wrecked with grief and loneliness, and Merle just left without looking back once. The only person he had ever looked up to, the one who should have been there for him as his older brother had made himself scarce, leaving Daryl to suffer in the dark. Was Merle actually surprised he grew up to be emotionally repressed and taciturn? That he could not control his rage whenever it hit him?

"Is that why I lost my hand?!" Merle exploded, taking a few threatening steps forward.

There was a suffocating tension between the brothers as the stress of the day had finally reached its culmination. That, combined with Merle's days kept in captivity and Daryl's recent troubles with Samara as well as the impending danger in the form of Woodbury, had only fueled the flames until it grew into a blazing wildfire, spewing embers everywhere.

"You lost your hand 'cause you're a simple-minded piece of shit!"

—And with that the fire reached its apogee.

Merle was the one to throw the first punch, hitting Daryl square in the jaw. Taking a few steps back, Daryl recovered quickly to dodge Merle's next attack and retaliate with a harsh fist to his ribs. If his brother wanted a brawl, Daryl would not disappoint him. At this point, both brothers acted on pure instinct through the only way they knew how to express their emotions—through bruising fists.

Punching and striking and kicking any part of their body they could reach. Like two beasts, they grappled and brawled, shedding blood and hurting their flesh. But the physical pain was nothing but a speck compared to how their hearts bled. Their anger and despair, sorrow and disappointment gathered throughout their hollow life reverberated through their bruising fists. Tears they would not shed flew through their blows and kicks, withering their souls bit by bit until it there was nothing left but a raw, gnarled mess.

In this fleeting moment, Daryl _hated_ his brother. Hated the life he had to endure. His father for being nothing more than a drunken lout. His mother for leaving them behind to deal with their bastard of a father and mess of a life. The group for never being able to take care of themselves not once, always needing help. Samara for her inconsistency and unwillingness to let him have that small piece of happiness that he had desperately craved ever since he was a boy. Himself, for the choices he had made throughout his life. _Everything_. It all came out of him in waves of pure loathing. A purging after months, _years_ of it poisoning his soul.

—It felt like the beginning of the end…or it was finally the long awaited divide.

The old Daryl and the new.

The one that needed his brother and the one that stood on his own two legs, never faltering.

In a moment of inattention, Merle caught Daryl by the back of his wife beater and pulled. A rip echoed out in the hushed world and Daryl felt himself fall through nothingness before colliding with the scorching road. The impact jarred him back to harsh reality where the aftermath of his wretched life were visible on his skin.

Merle could _see_.

His brother took a step back, stunned. His eyes were glued in mute horror to the many scars on Daryl's back, each more glaring than the next. They were old, but Merle could tell by their size and degree of color that they had been agonizing. A trademark of his father's.

"I-I didn't know he was—"

"Yeah, he did." Daryl tried to salvage his shirt but it was hopeless as it just hung lifelessly, no different than his mood. He felt hollow, an empty shell without a soul. All his life he had tried to keep this particular aspect of his childhood a secret because he knew what would happen if Merle had caught wind of it while their father was still alive. "He did the same to you. That's why you left first."

"I had to, man." Merle's voice was barely above a whisper, the shock of this discovery still wrecking his insides. "I would've killed him otherwise."

Daryl knew and that was one of the few reasons he always forgave his brother. At times, Daryl even encouraged his leaving. He'd rather his brother be far away than in jail for life. Because then…he'd truly be alone, and that thought kept him silent throughout their lives.

But not anymore. There were no authorities or judges that could condemn them. Just their own hearts, and Daryl was through with it. He had no more to say or show his brother at the moment.

"Where you goin'?" Merle yelled after him as he limped towards the car, blood still running down his nose.

"Back where I belong!"

Yes, the prison was his home and the people that lived there. Not here in this empty place full of hatred and sorrow.

"I can't go with you!" Merle's despairing tone had him pause. His brother looked so emotionally exhausted that he aged ten years, his eyes sunkening and his wrinkles highlighting. Daryl wondered how he himself looked. Probably no better than Merle. "I did too many things. Things the others won't forget. They'll kick me out sooner or later, and what then?"

Excuses…Always excuses. A lifetime of them and Daryl was _sick_ to the bone of listening.

"You know, I may be the one walkin' away..." Daryl voice cracked at the end, no longer having the will to keep his heart in one piece. "But you're the one that's leavin'. _Again_."

As he walked towards the car, fully prepared for his brother to stay behind, he heard a curse and the rustle of quick steps. In the end, despite his arguments and persuasion, Merle wouldn't leave. He _couldn't_.

They sat in silence as Daryl drove, Merle's shirt now covering his back. Blood still leaked from the cuts on their faces and their reddened skin began to swell, turning a sickly blue. But all of that dwarfed in comparison to their silence. It was a sad one, full of regret and wretchedness, but most importantly it was for the realizations each had come to.

There was no going back after this.

* * *

Deep in the Tombs, Samara had just finished patrolling with Glenn, Sasha and Tyreese after several grueling hours. The others had been tasked with cleaning up what was left of the walkers and Samara offered herself as lookout. That was the extent of her capabilities at the moment, but more importantly, the Native wished to asses the Tombs in its entirety. There was hidden potential down in the depths.

But there seemed to be no end to the walkers. Every time they thought they had finished, others would appear out of the shadows. There was no end to their slow march, not unless they fixed the fence. Unfortunately, the time for such a task was not available. They had the Governor's shadow looming over them threateningly. Winning this battle was their first priority. Besides, Samara could see the use to this error.

"Samara, you have military experience." Tyreese started as he cleaned his pipe with a dirtied cloth he had found. The group was slowly making their way back to the surface, finished with their task. Blood, sweat and dirt marred their complexions, their muscles stiff with exhaustion. "How should we prepare for them?"

Samara shrugged. "I was a pilot, not a soldier. I know about planning a fight just as much as you. But from what I can see, we need a plan with the Tombs at its core. This is a great place for an ambush. It's dark, the corridors are puzzling and the walkers are always hungry. We lure Woodbury down here and we got them cornered."

"A trap." Sasha mused with a sparkle in her eyes. "If we lock the doors and create a straight path towards the walkers, it could work."

Samara nodded, pleased that Sasha could see her vision. "Make a loud enough noise and the walkers will come running. They'll either kill some Woodbury people or push them back."

"And if they get out?" Tyreese asked curiously.

"Gunners." The Native's eyes flashed darkly, already envisioning the death squad that awaited. "On the catwalks and some of the places I was talking about for sentries. We don't have to win. We just have to make their getting at us more trouble than it's worth."

Fear was a _great_ incentive. If the people of Woodbury saw them as too much of a hassle, perhaps they would overpower the Governor's decision and retreat. Maybe even leave them alone for good.

"What about the forest?" Glenn quipped as he cautiously turned the corner with Sasha, machete ready for any trouble despite cleaning the area of their undead neighbors hours ago. "We could post some snipers there. Andrea is the best among us."

"Good idea, but someone would need to be there with her. We're still surrounded by walkers, after all, and the gunshots resulting from the fight will call them in droves. One moment of distraction and she'll be undead food." Andrea needed support. One person who could watch her back at all times and Samara volunteered. She was in no condition to fight, it became painfully obvious today. She had tried wielding a gun and failed as her dislocated arm couldn't support the weight for long. Never mind swinging a machete or shouldering a rifle as neither arms were apt for it. Her left hand could barely wiggle and her right arm was stiff, leaving her weapons to hang off her dejectedly. But…if she sat unmoving with a sniper supported on the ground it could work. It didn't require much effort, just finding the best position to lie in without upsetting her injuries. She and Andrea could take turns while reloading.

"The biggest problem I see is that there are too few of us and just too much space." Sasha heaved as she jogged up to a lone walker and stabbed it in the head. Its heavy weight fell with a disgusting squelch, almost dismembering on impact. "We're only eighteen out of which three will be out of the play. And sorry to say this, but half of those left aren't even capable of killing someone."

Samara knew who she was thinking of—Beth, Carol, Dale, her own brother, Alice, Axel and even Glenn, who Samara remembered had always been squeamish when it came to causing death to the living. These were the weak links of their army. They would serve better fighting from a distance or offering support. Up close and personal and Samara didn't believe they could go through with it.

"Maybe it's better this way." Glenn kicked a downed walker to make sure it wouldn't surprise them. "A dozen can run around almost undetected. And we know this place. I think we have a better chance with fewer people."

Samara saw the truth in his side. Small groups could walk around undetected and they had the walkies to constantly keep contact.

The forest…they could post a group there and take Woodbury from the rear. And if the Governor and his forces retreated, they could gun down as many as possible. The forest, the Tombs, the catwalk and the sentry points. Those were the vital spots of their offense.

Her planning came to a shuddering stop as a distant bang reverberated through the emptiness of the hall. It had been a familiar boom, one that had Samara sweating bullets.

 _No…_

"What was that?" Tyreese asked, his voice barely above a fearful whisper.

 _We're not ready._

Samara's pupils dilated in horror.

The walkie-talkie at Glenn's belt crackled and buzzed.

"We're under attack!"


	48. Trojan Horse

_**Author's Note:**_ So sorry for the delay, but I had some problems with the PC along with life stuff. Nothing dramatic just time consuming. I hope you enjoy the new chapter. Read on!

* * *

Samara could hear her blood pumping.

The others were way ahead of her as they ran, their stomachs in their throats. Not even half a minute passed since the first gunshot resounded that it picked up again, this time accompanied by a deafening swarm.

This can't be happening, was what circled Samara's mind. They were barely halfway through their preparations and Woodbury was already apt and ready to fight. She could not believe it. Had they started without the Governor or was he present as well? Was this to be the day that would decide their fate?

Samara gritted her teeth. Come what may, it was out of their hands now.

Throwing away her sling and ignoring the soreness that came along with that action, Samara grabbed the rifle that hung lifelessly down her back and gripped it as tightly as possible. Her bandaged arm was position awkwardly underneath the rifle as she manipulated it with her dislocated one, and all of this put her under incredibly painful stress.

Out through the door, she threw herself against the cage's reinforcements beside Glenn and the siblings and peered through the gaps to assess the situation. The area was being littered with bullets and people hid like rabbits underneath whatever cover they could reach. Benches, buildings, bodies—

Samara's eyes sharpened.

Carol was screaming in fright as she used what seemed to be Axel's corpse to escape the shower of death.

 _One down, seventeen left._

There was no time to mourn, not even a moment to spare a shred of pity for their deceased. There was only what yet remained alive and the dire situation at hand. Her gaze did not linger as it moved over the others. Carl shielded his mother behind some benches. Maggie and Beth were both armed and shooting back while Michonne took cover behind the overturned bus in the field, shooting every once in a while. Samara could see from her vantage point Hershel huddled over in the deer's pen while Rick and Dale were even further away being pinned down by enemy fire. Every now and then, Samara heard the pop of a hunting rifle and knew Andrea was in the sentry tower, sniping to her heart's content.

The bullets were coming from the tree line, beyond the prison's fences. Samara could hear three sets of different assault rifles and another from the distant watchtower near the gate.

Clang!

"Everyone, take cover!" Glenn shouted as another bullet dented the metal of the cage.

Even with sweat running down her brow, Samara was calm underneath the strain on her features. For now, she knew that there were four enemies with military type rifles—three in the forest and one in the tower. With swiftness that would later cost her, she snatched the walkie from Glenn's belt and tuned it to the blonde's frequency.

"Andrea! Shoot the sniper!"

The walkie crackled and the Florida woman's languid voice came on, only this time wrecked with frustration.

"What do you think I'm doin'?! The fucker is shootin' from behind cover!"

Samara cursed internally. As she looked over the gap, she dismally became aware of the bullets the group was wasting. Their targets were far away, too far for their rifles without scopes. And worse, they couldn't even see them. They were shooting blindly.

"We have to get out there!"

Glenn shouted over the sound of gunfire. He was eager to help his people, especially the ones stuck in the fields. Samara could see his eyes glued to the deer pen in trepidation.

"How?" Sasha hissed as she shot through the gaps. "We can barely leave the cage!"

"We have to reach Carol at least and get her to safety!" Tyreese said as he watched with alarm as more bullets hit Axel's back, spraying blood.

Glenn nodded, but his eyes could see other people in need of help as well.

"Samara, go help Lori! Get her and Carl to cover! Sasha, take sniper position and cover me and Tyreese! We're gonna get Carol!"

There was no time to debate. The four of them ran the moment the gunshots ceased. Their attackers had to reload sometime, and that time was their only break.

Samara felt her soles hit the pavement unwavering as she ran towards the mother and son. Carl shielded his mother with his body, trying to make them as small as possible with hardly any fear of being shot himself. With little thought towards the pavement exploding near her running feet, she reached the pair with a hoarse breath on her tongue.

"Is any of you shot?"

Carl shook his head rigidly and Samara could see the fear in his eyes, but for the sake of his mother he was keeping himself strong. He might wish to go on scavenge trips and fight for the good of the group, be a warrior, but he was still a child underneath that hardened skin.

"N-No, but my mom—"

"Oh god! It hurts!"

Lori clutched her stomach tightly, her nails sinking into the material of her top. There was pain marring her features as tears pooled at her lids. With growing horror, Samara noticed the puddle underneath the heavily pregnant woman and her soaked jeans. Her water broke. Lori was going into labor.

"Oh, hell no!" Samara's eyes widened to the point of them almost popping out of their sockets. This could not be happening. Not _now_.

"Oh God!" Lori cried as she looked on in desperation as a stray bullet perforated one of the benches. "I can't have the baby! Not now!"

"No shit you can't have it right now!"

They were between the rock and the hard place. In every direction there was a shootout. Their only doctor was far away, trapped with the deer. But Alice—

Samara threw one of Lori's arms over her shoulders and gripped her side with her bandaged hand. The Native tried mightily to ignore the throbbing in her missing finger, knowing that balking at a time like this was inexcusable. They had to reach the main building. Alice had to be somewhere inside. At this point, she was the only one that could help Lori.

"Carl, listen to me. We have to get your mother to the medical wing. _Now_."

The boy nodded, his earlier fright now morphed into resolve. _That's it. Be strong for your mother._

Samara looked to the battlefield. Glenn and Tyreese had managed to move Carol from her human shield and get her to the cover of a building, but now it seemed that Glenn was jumping from cover to cover to reach one of the cars. He most likely had in mind to reach the people trapped in the field—Michonne and his father-in-law. The others continued on shooting, but it seemed futile as they had no target. Pandemonium was about and as a stray bullet wheezed past her head, Samara felt that sinking feeling plummet through her being. That coldness that iced her soul and created static in her brain was slowly creeping back into her life. After years of it being dormant, her army days was crawling up her spine like a slimy spider, bringing with it all the horrors she had witnessed.

 _No. No. No. Not here. Don't you dare hate a fit._

Samara took a deep breath. There was no time for her old PTSD, she had to get Lori inside and to safety and then return to the battlefield. She could not abandon her crew in their hour of need. They needed to drive back their attackers by whatever means necessary.

Samara turned towards the cage.

"Sasha!"

The girl stopped shooting and poked her head out enough that she was visible.

"I need you to cover me! We're coming in!"

With a nod, the girl shifted and found a different shooting spot that could provide support to the trio.

"Carl, you have to cover me too." The Native gave the boy her own rifle. A gun would not do for the distance that separated them from their enemy. "I can't do it while I'm carrying your mother."

The boy nodded, as an icy chill settled over his being. Samara frowned dismally. _Those are not the eyes of a child…_

"On three." But there was no time to think about Carl's state of mind. Their only objective as of now was to get Lori to the medical wing _alive_. "One, two. Th—"

The shooting ceased.

Samara searched petrified for the cause. Her gut feeling told her that this not signaled the end of their fight, but something else was afoot, something worse.

In the distance, there was a rumble. Her ears strained to catch that peculiar sound and soon realized it was tires spinning at full speed through dirt and gravel. There was a car headed straight for the prison, but was it friend or foe?

But Samara's hopes of Daryl coming to help them shattered in a thousand pieces as a large, rusted van bulldozed through the front gates, smashing even the second layer of fence. It scattered grass and earth as it sped into the field, leaving heavy tracks behind.

Samara's breath caught in her throat as the old van braked abruptly right in the center of the outer field. Sweat poured down Samara's forehead and not even Lori's hisses and cries of pain could move her from her glued spot. She could not take her eyes off the van knowing full well that only danger was inside. What was it? Armed people? Was the van rigged with explosives? The suspense was killing her.

Everyone watched with gut-wrenching tension as the van's back door dropped, chains rattling. Samara almost screamed in fury once she the contents of the vehicle made themselves known. Neither explosives nor soldiers, but the undead, shambling out one after another until a small, ravenous hoard formed on their territory.

She had seen enough.

"We have to go now!"

If Samara kept on remaining on the outside, Lori might just pop the baby. With a mighty jerk upwards, the Native brought the woman to her feet just as the shooting resumed. Carl covered them as he ran alongside, his eyes only on the field and his finger firmly pulling the trigger, raining down a torrent of bullets.

The distance was relatively small, but for Samara it felt like miles upon miles. She feared they would never reach the cage, but she forced her legs to keep on marching. Her body was a temple of pain as both arms throbbed from the exertion, but Samara ignored them with all her might. Her teeth sunk into her lip just to distract herself from the pain she was being tormented with.

She had to get Lori to safety. It was all that mattered.

* * *

The Governor peered through the scope of his rifle to witness his accomplishment with a broad, smug grin on his lips. Everything had gone according to plan. Rick's group had been scattered, shooting blindly at what they couldn't see and with the arrival of his _surprise_ , all hell broke loose for the people of the prison.

He had not come here with the intention to do harm, but to negotiate…At least, that was what he had said to his people. But underneath his visit, he had a much sinister motive and the result was staring him in the face. Let them panic, let them run around in fright, let them taste just a morsel of the hell he can unleash. There was more to come, but the Governor would take his time. He wished to savor their defeat. Their deaths would be a taste of the sweetest honey. After everything they had done to him, they deserved nothing less than the deepest pits of Hell. Even now, he still could not function without painkillers, and was on them constantly. Milton had done his best, but nothing could replace his missing eye or fix what that _bitch_ had done to his manhood. And his nails…it would take half a year before they grew back completely. His shoulders were barely mobile since the woman perforated them with a goddamn power drill and his…back end. He could barely sit down, even after a week.

The Governor felt scarlet rage cover his vision just thinking about his injuries. What these people had _dared_ to do to him. But it was also a reminder that he had grown too overconfident. He should have been on his guard, even in his own home, especially in such tumultuous times, but the Governor had wrongly thought that nothing could touch him. That he was above other people's reach. How harsh that lesson had been and how jarring the impact once he had been knocked off that high place he so comfortably sat in. Now, he knew better. No one was to be trusted, not even his remaining soldiers. They could all turn on him with just the right incentive. In this world, the only one he could trust was himself and next time a doubt about someone churned his instincts, he would shoot them dead on the spot.

—He had no more patience to give.

Michonne, Rick, Merle and Samara…They were the ones he desperately wanted to keep alive. They would have front row seats to their downfall. To watch as everyone around them—friend, lover or family—died screaming in pain. That was his most burning wish, and after…He would have them all for himself and that was when the real fun started.

As his lone eye looked over the people behind cover, shooting at the biters, he spotted a trio running away from the battle. Two women and a child. Through his scope, he recognized russet skin and long raven hair. Oh, and the bandages. He could not forget about those.

With a wicked smile on his face, the Governor pulled the trigger.

* * *

They were almost upon the prison. Daryl watched jaded as the trees flew past them, no creature or walker in sight. The road had been relatively free of obstacles, leaving them a clear path home. Yes, _home_. His place was where the others were. That was his home, his family. The only place where he belonged in this vicious, post-apocalyptic world. Despite Merle's insistence and interference, Daryl would not sway from his decision. He would live and die by the others side.

He would not be a _wanderer_. The long stretch of road had nothing to offer him but loneliness and desolation. Daryl craved stability, the one thing he had never had growing up and even as an adult, lacked. Always following Merle from one place to another was not a life he wished to repeat, not when he knew he had other options.

Merle lay sullen on his side. Neither had uttered a word since their quarrel. At this point in time, there was nothing else to say. The lines had been drawn clear in the dirt and both seemed to be on opposite sides. There was still time to change Merle's mind, but that black tingle in his stomach knew that he was wasting his time. Merle was not the type of person to be swayed by words. He only ever did what he wanted.

Daryl's fingers tightened on the steering wheel. He did not wish to lose his brother again, but why did it seem like this was the only road they were heading towards?

Daryl wanted to rage, but he was so emotionally exhausted that only a quiet sigh left him. He could not go through another roller-coaster of emotions and punches. He just wanted to crawl back in his cell and sleep the rest of the day. Perhaps, once he woke up, he would feel whole again, but he very much doubted it. This dispute of theirs was not something that could be easily swept under the rug.

Just as the car turned the corner on the dirt road towards the prison, Daryl hit the brakes within a split second. The occupants of the Jeep lurched forward, Merle even hitting the dashboard, as a Wrangler sped past, almost crashing into them.

Daryl had only been able to notice two silhouettes before it passed them with screeching tires.

"Who the fuck was that?!" Daryl shouted as he looked in the side mirror at the distancing car. That was not one of theirs, he realized with a cold rush.

"The Governor…Shit!" Merle's eyes were wide in foreboding. He did not need to see who was in that car to _know_. "We got ourselves trouble!"

Merle took his rifle from the backseat and checked the magazine. Full.

"It's go time, little brother!"

Daryl waited not a second longer as he lurched the Jeep forward at full speed. Fear and alarm seized his being as he wondered what horrors awaited him at the prison. Were there deaths? Was the prison demolished? Was anyone left alive? But what ate at Daryl most was the thought that he had lingered for too long away, fighting with his brother over something insignificant, and now…they might just be too late. Merle's foreboding words might just come true, and his new family will remain a bittersweet memory in his heart. Rick, Carol, Hershel…Everyone.

 _Samara…_

* * *

Samara gasped, sweat dribbling down her face in waves. Even her clothes stuck to her skin, her whole body damp. Out of breath, she carried Lori bridal style through the prison until finally reaching the medical ward. Samara's arms burned with the weight of the pregnant woman, especially her recuperating one. And her back…the horror…But all of those seemed minuscule as the woman in her arms wheezed hoarsely as blood spread over her chest, soaking in the material of her button-up shirt.

Lori had been shot. Just before reaching the safety of the cage, Samara had heard the distinctive sound of bullet hitting flesh and perforating bone and knew one of them had just been hit. She just had not expected the pregnant woman to be the victim. Carl had screamed in despair, Sasha had cursed foully and for once Samara saw hopelessness mark her usually stern features. Samara hadn't lost her stride as she simply picked up the woman and carried her inside. There had been no time to stop to assess the damage. She slipped into her old military shell and acted accordingly as if in a war zone—get the wounded to safe ground and only then, treat them.

Sasha had tried coming with them, but one bark from Samara had the young woman remain in position. Unless Sasha was a doctor, there was nothing she could help the bleeding woman with. She was better off helping the others defend their home.

Carl began barring the door to the medical wing with anything at hand as per Samara's orders while the Native jogged brusquely through the ward.

"Alice!"

A scuttle and the blonde appeared out of the office, a gun in hand. She was shaking, the whites of her eyes visible and her pupil's only pinpricks in her cornflower blue irises. The young woman was scared out of her mind, fear of the Governor obstructing her from joining the fight. But once her eyes landed on Lori, she acted. Her gun slipped out of her hands and she ran just as Samara lowered the pregnant woman onto a bed.

"What happened?!" Alice reached them, alarmed at seeing the blood. "What is going on out there?"

"I think it's Woodbury, but we've got other problems on our hands right now. A bullet hit Lori."

Alice wasted no time as she ripped open Lori's shirt. The bullet entry was just on her right side, just as the swell of her breast began.

"The bullet went clean through." Samara added as she watched uselessly as Alice checked the woman. If her words weren't enough proof, then the blood on Samara's arm and shirt were. As the Native had carried her, she had felt hot blood pouring down her arm and knew they had limited time. The bullet had punctured a lung. She had seen soldiers die more quickly from a wound of this caliber. In short, right now Lori was drowning in her own blood and they had, at most, ten minutes left.

And Alice knew that, judging from the miserable look she gave Samara.

"Why are you just standin' there? Save her!" Carl shouted as he joined them, his breath coming out in pants of fear and exertion.

"I-I…" Alice licked her dry lips. "I can't. We don't have the sort of equipment here to treat wounds this serious. This ain't a hospital. You can treat stab wounds and colds, but not collapsin' lungs. And if Lori goes into cardiac arrest, she's gonna die and there's nothin' even Hershel can do."

"There has to be somethin'!" Tears brimmed at the boy's eyes, his panic doubling and reaching hysteria levels.

No…there wasn't. One look at Lori and Samara understood that. She was a marked woman.

—The owl was coming.

Alice gripped the edge of the bed with white knuckles. Her eyes were lost, swimming in despair and panic. There seemed to be an internal struggle battling inside her. The young woman knew there was little she could do to help, but she could at least try. She was not Dr. Stevens, but she was his pupil and she'll be damned if she spoiled his memory. She _had_ to try.

"Okay…okay." The blond took a deep breath and steeled her eyes. Even the shaking in her hands lessened to a small tremble. "We have to cover the bullet's entry and exit. Seal it off completely. Then we're gonna need a endotracheal tube for her lungs—"

"No…"

All attention was on Lori as the woman strained herself to talk through gurgles and loss of breath.

"No time…My life doesn't matter…Get the baby out."

Carl pushed past Samara and reached his mother's side, tears streaming down his cheeks.

"No, mom." His hand caught hers, clutching it like a lifeline in this heavy storm they were both sailing.

"Are you insane?!" Alice exploded, her already burnt nerves being ignited once more. "I can't do that!"

"You don't…have a choice."

Samara shut her eyes tightly, letting the anguish wash over her freely. The woman knew there was no salvation for her, and she was choosing to spare the life of her child by giving up her own. A mother's sacrifice.

"I've never delivered a baby before, or done a C-section." Alice's trembling skyrocketed at the thought of it. "I know what it says in the books, but—"

"Please…I'm already dead. My baby has to survive…for _all_ of us. Please, please…"

If it died, then all hope was lost. Was that it, Lori? That thing in your belly which the others sacrificed food, safety and health over. Even lives. If that died, then all their efforts would have been in vain. They would have suffered and died for nothing. Because then…there truly was no hope for the ones alive either. To grow, to begin life anew in the ashes of their former one. Life for humans would cease once they reached their end. All sign of their existence will degrade and turn into dust and this world of theirs will remain barren and their mark on it forgotten over time.

—If they could not even form new life and guide it to build a new, stronger world than their former, then they were truly _lost_. Then they deserved to die and scatter into to the wind.

"Do it, Alice."

Alice looked in horrified shock at Samara. "What?! You can't be—"

"Yes, I _am_ serious. There's isn't much time left." Samara's eyes narrowed heatedly. " _Do_ it."

The blond stood frozen, her arms useless at her sides.

"If you won't, I will." Samara threatened, and she had no idea on how a C-Section was made. But her threat served its purpose as it forced Alice into action, unsympathetic to her wants.

"A-Alright, I'll do it."

Willowy fingers clasped Samara's wrist. Olive green connected with chocolate brown and Samara could see the gratitude swimming inside. Samara knew that her decision will come to haunt her in the future, but she understood all too well the despair of losing a child and she did not wish the dying woman to experience it as well, not in her last moments. Her soul would never know rest.

 _I'll help get that baby alive out of you. That's the least I can do._

* * *

Rick hacked down another walker.

Once the shooting began, the undead from the surrounding area came tumbling upon their heads like a swarm of locusts. It had been his and Dale's misfortune to be caught outside the fences while on survey for breaches. Never would he had thought that the Governor would attack so soon. At first, he had prayed it wasn't him, but the sight of Martinez scattered away all doubts.

The man was here. The _monster_. And he was killing them.

Initially, he had wanted to regroup with the others, but Martinez's bullets left him and Dale cut off from his people. They had to remain in hiding as Martinez pinned them down in place and hoping that no more of his people died. He knew about Axel from Glenn through the radio. He tried to keep constant contact with Glenn, Andrea and Hershel who held the other communicators, relying more on Andrea as she had a bird's eye view of everything happening bellow. The woman had pinpointed two other locations that held shooters—one in the distant watch tower near the gates and one in the forest, just shy of Rick's location. Now wonder he was under such heavy fire.

Glenn was speeding down the field, ignoring the bullets that hit the side of his car and cracked his window shield. He had to reach Hershel who was a sitting duck in the deer pen, hiding behind the corpse of the deer. The poor mother had been shot dead and soon her fawns followed in her wake. Michonne was at danger herself as she was smack in the middle, her only cover the upturned prison bus. She had been stripping the bus of anything usable in their defense when Woodbury attacked.

But even as bullets flew by him, even as he assessed the dangers to the others, the only thing on his mind was his family. Lori and Carl and the baby. If anything happened to them…he didn't know what he'd do. He was supposed to be with them, to protect his family, but instead he was stuck here without a chance of even lifting his body from the ground.

He didn't think he could handle it if one of them died. He would rip out his hair in despair. He would lose his mind. He had traveled across several states, fought hordes of undead, killed his best friend and others, all for the sake of keeping his family alive. It couldn't have all been for nothing.

And Carl…If he died, then all hope was lost. It didn't matter if he or Lori did as long as their child got to live another day. He and the baby was all that mattered in the end.

 _God, please. Don't let them get hurt._

The radio at his side crackled.

"Hell yeah! Got the bastard!" Andrea's triumphant whoop came through. "Sniper in the tower is down!"

Rick thanked for this small mercy, but this victory dried up in the sight of a van busting through the front gates. The vehicle stopped right in the middle of the field and dropped off its contents which only served to further anger the former sheriff. The red hot fury that swelled inside him had him pick up his gun and drive Martinez back into the cover of the trees with a shower of bullets.

These people were destroying his sanctuary, the home they all fought for. They sweated and bled over it and had friends die in their quest for safety and peace and now…These sons of bitches thought they could just roll up here and tear down their dream? Steal what was theirs?

With a howl of rage, Rick stabbed a walker that came too close and advanced on the party near the forest. Even Dale's desperate cries could not stop him as only death and destruction was on his ardent mind. These people had to pay. They had no right to walk up to his doorstep and kick it down, demanding entry.

This was their home and Woodbury was not invited!

But as Rick kept shooting, he began to notice the lack of response. Less and less bullets were shot at him until, finally, the sound of tires screeching filled the forest for a short moment.

They were leaving, Rick thought with trepidation. This had not been _the_ attack, but a prelude. A scare tactic and a show of force.

His blue eyes turned back to the prison and saw Michonne dash through the field like a gazelle, leaving downed walkers in her wake. Her goal was the truck near the deer pen where Glenn was helping Hershel inside. From inside the prison's main fence, he could see others move around, but not who.

Groan.

With all his might, Rick turned and swung his rifle to shoot at the approaching walker. With alarm, he became aware of the many walkers that had surrounded him. Too many as Dale struggled against them while calling out urgently for Rick's help. But the former sheriff could not reach him. He was cut off by a wall of walkers.

His heart felt as if crushed under a cold fist. No matter how many walkers he felled, more replaced them. He was being driven with his back against the fence and once he touched the cool chains, Rick knew that time was running out. If he did not do something soon, he and Dale would both lose their lives.

Honk! Honk!

Salvation came in the form of a Jeep speeding towards them at full speed.

* * *

Alice swallowed heavily as she glimpsed Lori's stomach. There was a scar there, her old caesarean. Samara had brought the equipment needed, but still Alice's hands hesitates. They did not have time for insecurities, Samara thought as she applied pressure to the bullet wound, preventing more blood from pouring out. They had had to duct tape the exit hole and hope it would keep until the baby was out. Unfortunately, that was the extent of the help they could offer Lori. Anything more would require they overlook the baby and that was not her wish.

Samara could understand the mighty pressure Alice was being forced under, but there was no time to lament. It was either do or stand back and watch as the mother and baby both died. Alice just had to pull up her pants and take on the challenge, no matter how grisly or disturbing it would be. She took on the role of doctor knowing full well that people will die, she might as well act like it.

Carl sat by his mother's side, still gripping her hand while silent tears poured down his face. He understood what was about to happen and he could not keep himself strong.

Lori smile warmly at her son, her weak fingers squeezing his.

"Baby, I don't want you…to be scared. This is what I want. This is _right_." The woman took a gasping breath and with dismay, Samara heard the blood gurgle in her air ducts. "Now y-you take care…of your daddy for me, alright? And your little brother…or sister."

"Mom…" Carl was crying bitter tears. His grief came out in salty waves and Samara grimaced as she could practically feel it roll over her skin.

"You're gonna be fine…" She breathed rapidly, her voice getting weaker by the moment. "You're gonna beat this world, I know…you will. You are smart, and you are strong, and you are…so brave! And I love you!"

"I love you too!" Carl balked as choked on his heartache. Samara could almost hear his heart breaking in two and there was nothing that could be done.

"You gotta do what's right, baby. You promise me…you'll always do what's right. It's so easy…to do the wrong thing in this world." Lori cried and gasped as blood rolled down the corner of her mouth. Life was quickly leaving her and the woman knew as she tried to convey all her love in these last few precious, conscious moments. She looked so wretched and filled with grief that Samara had to turn her gaze away. "So don't do it…if it feels wrong, all right? Don't let the world…spoil you. You're so good! You're my…sweet, sweet boy! The best thing…I ever did! I love you! I love you so much!"

 _Please gods, let this end._ This was just too painful. She was so sorry this had to happen. Especially that the boy had to witness it. And Rick… _Gods, what's he going to do when he learns that his wife is dead?_

Lori coughed as the force of her prolonged speaking rushed more blood out of her mouth and spotted her chin and cheeks, leaving her a gory mess. There was no time left. All the strength was leaving the woman's body and Samara could see the way her gaze went in and out of focus.

"Samara," Those dying eyes settled on her with beseeching. "You're gonna…have—"

"I know."

Once Lori died, Samara knew what she had to do. She had known from the beginning.

"Rick…Take care…" The woman gasped as blood slipped through Samara's fingers, leaving her russet skin drenched in crimson. "Don't…lose…way."

Samara nodded numbly, holding her own vulnerability at bay. She wished she could weep for the woman, but she had to be strong. She had to be the rock in this raging maelstrom. If she toppled, Alice might as well.

Lori let her eyes wander to the ceiling, unseeing. Her fingers laxed in her son's grip prompting the boy to howl in anguish. At this point there was a film over the woman's eyes as her voice came out in a feather whisper.

"Goodnight, love…"

"I'm sorry." Alice choked back tears as the scalpel cut through skin.

Lori screamed from the pain, but it was short-lived. The shock upon her system had been too much for her frail body to handle and with a flutter of dark lashes, her eyes closed forever, her last breath leaving her body with a quiet sigh.

Samara numbly removed her hands from the bullet wound and watched the dead woman with crestfallen eyes. Words could not express the regret she felt for what had to happen. She was sorry for the boy for being robbed of his mother and for Rick for losing his wife. And most of all, Lori. For never having the chance to hold her child. Samara knew all too well that pain.

 _It must have hurt worse than any knife could, huh Lori?_

"Samara!" Alice's urgent tone had her snap to attention. "Give me your hands!"

At once, the Native was at Alice's side and with jaded eyes observed the gash in the side of Lori's stomach. Blood stained the white sheets and pale skin of the dead woman. If Samara lowered her head a bit, she could peer inside Lori.

"Keep the site clean." Alice grunted, her face riddled with sweat from the strain of her efforts. "I cut too deep, I'm gonna cut the baby."

Samara did as told, wiping around the area of the gash as fast as humanly possible. She too was anxious to get the baby out. More because Samara was afraid that her decision had not led to the death of the baby.

"Alright, I see it. I see the ears!" Alice licked the bead of sweat that crawled next to her mouth. "Jesus, I can't tell if this is the arm or the leg. Alright, I'm gonna pull the baby out!"

With sounds that had Samara gag lightly, Alice pulled a wrinkly, small creature out of Lori's womb. It was an ugly thing to be honest. Damp and pink like a newborn mouse, and any moment now it would start bawling its little lungs out. But it didn't. The little old man remained silent as a tomb and Samara feared the worst. Alice, noticing the lack of baby screeches, tapped the newborn's back with an air of urgency. All three living occupants waited with bated breath, fearing that all their efforts had gone to vain as the little thing had died during its traumatic coming into this world. Samara's fingers crushed the towel she had used to wipe the gushing blood and could feel it wet her fingers crimson. She couldn't breathe. Not as she watched the baby remain still as a puppet, its tiny limbs swaying with the force of Alice's taps. Was this to be a repeat of history?

A wrinkle of its nose and Samara let out the breath she had been holding as the tiny creature coughed and then contorted its face to cry out loud and shrilly.

Alice began to cry, murmuring gratitude under her breath. To who, Samara did not know and she doubted Alice knew at the moment either. With languid fingers Carl took off his checkered shirt and gave it to Alice to wrap the baby in. There was a hazy film over the boy's eyes and Samara knew he was simply moving on instinct as shock wrecked his damaged mind.

 _Poor kid._ She felt angry that he had to witness this tragedy, but it was inevitable. Their lives were so fragile now and sooner or later Carl would have come in contact with the death of blood. She just hoped he would be able to find the shore out of these murky waters of grief, and with it find the strength to move on, stronger and wiser. From here on, he'll see more death and he will have to steel himself towards it. Construct himself a wall between him and what could potentially harm him emotionally. Otherwise, he would not mentally survive for long.

Taking out her hunting knife, Samara swiftly cut the last tie connecting child and mother and separated them. Looking down at Lori, Samara knew what she had to do as the knife glinted menacingly. Oddly, now as she looked at her corpse, Samara felt nothing of the previous sadness. Lori was now just a body minutes away from reviving and joining the ranks of the undead. A hollow shell.

—Better for Samara since it won't hurt stabbing her in the head.

"Alice, take Carl and the baby and go into the office. I have to—"

"No..." Carl's dull voice gave the Native pause. "She's my mom."

Samara was at a standstill. On one hand she could not let the boy since it was his own mother and the damage it might inflict on his already scarred psych might break him further, but on the other, it might be just what Carl needed. Closure was a better alternative than always hanging onto that one moment, endlessly looping it inside your head. 'What if's' were always the most dangerous thoughts.

She had promised Lori, though…But Lori was dead and dead men kept no recollection of promises.

With her good hand, she brought out her gun and passed it into the boy's hands to the dismayed eyes of Alice. A gun was better. Quicker and not so personal.

Picking up Alice and the baby, Samara led them to the other side of the room. The boy needed his privacy to say goodbye one last time.

"Samara..." Alice started as they walked to the office. She sounded exhausted and on the verge of tears. "Can you please take _her_? I-I can't hold her right now."

From her trembling arms to the whites of her eyes, Alice too experienced shock to a certain degree. She had been the one to cut Lori open after all, consequentially ending her life. Another one in the span of a week. With pity on the young woman, Samara took the burden away despite her body revolting against the idea. Alice fell almost instantly in the nearby chair and remained there, letting her forehead fall onto her clasped hands as her body swayed lightly.

The baby in her arms squirmed and fussed, but thankfully it had stopped crying. Rosy cheeked, she gurgled content as it laid in Samara's throbbing arms, pale olive eyes watching her with hawkish scrutiny. Lori's daughter looked so small and fragile. Even a drop could kill her. How did that woman even begin to believe that this tiny creature could survive the harshness of this world?

Samara's heart squeezed painfully, but she could not look away from the bundle covered in fluids and blood and Carl's shirt. Not even the gunshot that resounded finitely through the medical ward could have diverted her attention.

The sadness within her had made her deaf and blind to the world around.

* * *

Rick heaved as he put down the last walker. At least for the moment.

Around him was a sea of corpses parting the never-ending ocean of grass. The sharp twang of the crossbow had finally ceased along with the echoing bang of bullets. They were all exhausted from their struggle for life. Dale clung to the chain fence, hunched over his knees as sweat dribbled off him like a faucet. The man wasn't in his prime anymore. Such exertion could give him a heart attack, but still he had fought bravely. Rick himself wasn't in any better state, but he still had stamina left to wield. The same could be said of the Dixon brothers who had joined the fight soon after Woodbury had retreated. Just when all hope seemed lost, the brothers appeared like saviors in a giant, metal horse to mow down the walkers endangering him and Dale. Shoulder by shoulder they pushed back the oncoming wave of undead until they were the only ones standing.

Rick could not even begin to explain his gratitude, but there was no time for words yet as danger still roamed the interior of the prison and his people were scattered across without lead. It would take time until he could reach the inner gates, but Rick without a doubt will. If the Governor thought this surprise attack had demoralized him, he was dead _wrong_. It just served to anger him even further. That bastard had to gall to walk up to his home and kick down the door like he owned it. Worse, pick off his people like they were sheep to the slaughter.

It would not do.

Now, more than ever, Rick knew that they _had_ to win. Failure was not even an option. He would not give that man the satisfaction of knowing that he defeated them. He'd rather burn the prison down himself.

No one knew how much time passed before everyone was back together again. Rick and his small group had to run through the throng while the others diverted their attention with loud yells and noises. But the same could be said of both sides—they were all equally exhausted and dispirited. He could see it in their worn-out faces. Even their eyes deflected from the damage Woodbury had inflicted, unwilling to see the blood and destruction.

Poor Axel's body remained riddled with holes and alone on the warm concrete, rotting away even as they spoke. Rick vowed they would bury him soon, but not before making sure they were safe for the time being. He could not risk another death.

"Who's injured?" Rick demanded as he looked over the people gathered on the baseball court. More or less everyone was present except for his family, Alice and Samara. His heart did a double take, but the former sheriff kept his wits about him.

 _They're safe. Probably inside the prison._

"Everyone's alright." Glenn answered, an alertness to his eyes that Rick rarely saw.

"Where's Lori and Carl? Alice? Samara?"

"Alice's in the medical wing. That's where I saw her last before...the shootin' started." Maggie answered as she shouldered her father's weight. Hershel had had to leave his crutch behind in his escape.

"Samara led Lori and Carl inside the prison." Sasha informed, but there was a wariness about her that had Rick on edge. He did not like the way she was looking at him. "But, there's something you need to know…"

Doubt slowly crawled towards his throat, bringing forth a suffocating feeling. Sasha's words had a foreboding edge to them. Whatever she was about to say he would not like for sure, and he almost wanted to stop her, but the dread inside him did not allow him to remain in the dark.

"What?" Rick swallowed thickly, his throat suddenly dry. "Did somethin' happen?"

Sasha cringed.

Ah, now he understood that look in her eye. It was pity.

Heat warmed his extremities and swiftly it raced towards his head, leaving a lightness that made him feel like walking on eggshells. A shadow seemed to loom over him, its scythe dangling over his head threateningly. Control was slipping through his grip as he fidgeted in place, licking his lips continuously. He was so thirsty that he felt like he would dry up any moment now, nothing left but a wrinkly sack of flesh and bones.

Was…was Carl and Lori dead? Had they been shot?

Was his family dead?!

A faint cry.

Confusion marred his brow as he turned towards the sound. Everyone looked with their breaths stuck in their throats as three people exited the prison, a weeping bundle in arms. Alice was first, her white doctor's coat stained ruby red as if just walking away from a slaughter. Her gaze was far away, barely focused on the present. Carl soon followed, but the boy's face was lowered and covered by his sheriff's hat. And last…Samara with her crimson drenched hands holding a newborn infant swaddled in a red shirt.

Rick's rifle fell out of his numb hands.

A step. Two.

Rick moved towards them with unsteady feet as the situation slowly began to dawn on him.

 _Lori…_

"Where…" His voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper. _No. No. It's not true._ _She's fine. She has to be._ "Where is she?"

Alice opened her mouth to answer, but no words came out. With a trembling gasp, she shook her head furiously as she covered her face with her hands, unable to stare at him any longer.

 _No. She's fine. She's just resting. It's not true._

Rick could hear himself gasping for air as that tightness in his throat constricted with each passing moment. Was he dying, he wondered. Was his heart failing from grief?

As blue eyes connected with olive he searched for answers, but the Native was likened to a statue, giving off no response to his silent question.

"Samara…W-Where's Lori?" He stuttered as his eyes stung. "Where is she? Is she—"

Samara's jaw locked, and for a split second, Rick caught the fleeting look of sorrow directed at him.

 _No. No. No._

His gaze moved towards his son, but could see nothing but an empty shell staring at the heated pavement. Rick had been a police officer. He had had to report the death of a loved one to the surviving family. The Kentucky man was well aware of that expression of hollowness once the crying stopped, and his son…

"Oh no…"

It felt like the world had been taken from under his legs. There was nothing for him to hold onto as he submerged into the murky waters, the light receding with each dive. Hope had burned to cinders.

He approached his son, his entire body trembling. What was he supposed to do? Comfort his son? Lie that everything will be alright? He felt so lost, none of his previous experiences coming to mind. His thoughts had abandoned him in this dire hour and left him with nothing but this excruciating, heart crushing grief that bubbled in his chest and left him a mangled corpse.

"Carl…"

The boy did not move. In fact, for all his stillness, he might not have even heard. His mind was far away from this place, somewhere where even his father's words could not reach.

Rick felt his heart crack further, despair flooding through the gaps. His eyes were overflowing with tears as he tried to reach for his son, only to have the boy tense like a cornered animal. Life seemed to spark into the boy's eyes as he stared at his father with trauma and misery.

That look was all it took to break what little self-control Rick still clung too.

"No." His voice cracked like a small child's. "No…No!"

The tears poured forth uncontrollably.

Lori…His wife. His first love. His partner.

 _She's dead._

And he never got to talk to her…

His legs could no longer hold him as Rick fell to the ground, crying inconsolably.

Everything had been for nothing. Surviving winter. Enduring days of starvation or functioning on only meager scraps. Having to deal with the bitter cold as best as possible. Venturing into a walker infested prison with only a handful of people. Friends dying. All of that had been for _her_ and Carl, but he had failed her in the end. Again, he had to disappoint her. To make her suffer.

Rick was aware of how much he had made her hurt with his silence and taciturnity. His muteness had always been what Lori despised the most in him, and that had been his chosen weapon for her affair with Shane. For the lies, breaking his trust and for pitting him against his friend. She had as much fault in how it ended between him and Shane as himself and Shane had. But, as time passed he began to loath it. Every time he turned a cold shoulder and saw her dejected, he felt his heart break a little bit further. He had never wanted this. For them to become two people that hissed and spat at each other. He could still vividly remember the good days before the virus when they still smiled fondly at each other. When they still talked openly and when their love was still a blooming flower. But that flower had wilted even before the dead began walking. He had been just too blind to see it.

Rick had tried to make amends. To fix their broken relationship, but always something happened that needed to be put forward on his list, and Lori was soon forgotten. How he regretted his actions now. In this world, nothing lasted forever, and now he reaped what he had sown. He just wished it didn't have to be Lori the one getting punished. Rick would have gladly died in her stead. He would do _anything_ to protect his family, even sacrifice a life if needed.

Faintly, Rick felt his body make contact with the warm ground as the tears rolled down his cheeks in rivulets.

What was he supposed to do now? How was he expected to move forward when he wanted to do nothing that lay down and cry until there were no more tears left in him? The others needed—

No…It was because he always fixed other problems that this tragedy happened. He should have been with his family. He should have protected them. Instead, he had been far away, taking care of things as if he was the only one who could fix them.

He had failed Lori as a husband. He had failed Carl as a father. He has failed them both as protector. And the result of that stained Alice and Samara's clothing.

A nostalgic smell came by eliciting memories of days past. Those pancakes that Lori made and always managed to burn. They tasted horrible, but Rick had always eaten them with a smile on his face. He had never minded the crispy taste because Lori had baked them, and because he knew it always put a smile on her lips.

That smile of hers that dimpled her cheeks. Her laughter like the tingle of a dozen bells.

Rick gasped briskly.

—Warm chocolate eyes that expressed so much. Wavy hair the color of coffee and always with a hint of coconut on the tresses. Rick could still feel their softness to the touch.

The tears stopped pouring.

—Pale skin like marble. So fragile looking, but with a tougher hide underneath. Rick had always loved tracing the contours of her body, especially the curve of her hips. His feather touches always managed to tickle her, eliciting those pearly titters that he adored so much.

Rick felt his mind splinter.

—He could still feel her ginger touch on his cheeks; her warm breath on his skin, and those thin, but alluring lips moving against his own.

" _I love you."_

It was too much.

All those memories washing over him with the added sensory overlap and the accumulated exhaustion caused Rick's mind to shut down, and allow _sweet_ silence to reign in its stead.

As strong as he was, even a man like Rick would cave once the pressure was too much to bear.

* * *

Samara stood lost with the baby in her arms as Rick cried and howled on the pavement. There was nothing she could do or say to the man to alleviate the pain in his heart. She knew that earth-shattering ache all too well and she was sorry he had to experience it as well. The ones left alive always drew the short stick in these sort of affairs.

Gods, she wished she could comfort him, but right now, the only thing for Rick to do was grieve until there was nothing left in his heart. All that sorrow had to leave his system otherwise he would never be able to get up back on his feet. Samara knew from her own experience with John. There was no moving forward without taking a few steps back.

—She just wished the sight of his wretchedness didn't hurt as much as it did.

Looking down at her arms, the newborn swaddled in Carl's shirt altered between gurgling and crying. She was probably hungry, Samara mused with a jaded outlook. Too bad her primary source of food was deceased. Funny, the Native was used to gore and violence, but Lori's death marked her in some way. It struck deep at a cord that she hadn't touched in a long time and it resonated loudly across her heart. _A mother's sacrifice…_

Her lips contorted as Samara's fingers tightened unconsciously on the fragile body making it squirm in discomfort. That feeling of nausea bubbled up her throat again as an all too familiar scene creeped out of the recesses of her mind. A black memory that she had locked away for the past two years, but every now and then it would slither out and torment her.

 _Please, someone take her away from me. I can't—_

Strong arms embraced her. Startled, she looked up to find soft, pale blue eyes offering reassurance. Forgetting her previous resolve and all worries up to this point, Samara practically melted into Daryl's arms as his comfort drove away the darkness within, leaving her mind clear once again.

 _He came back._

That thought made her happier than she had ever imagined. How much she had missed his touch. It had an intoxicating allure, trapping her in a web of security. She knew that with him she was safe. That come what may, he would protect her with his life. A fact she both cherished and loathed.

"I'm here. It's alright."

 _No, it isn't. The Governor doesn't realize what kind of blow he dealt._

Rick won't be able to lead them anymore, not with the state he was currently in. People don't recover psychologically from grief so easily. They were now fewer people who could fight and Samara felt the noose constrict around her throat. The damage that man had inflicted upon them was felt across the entire group. Fewer than half the group had managed to kill two of their own in the span of less than half an hour. It was a disheartening thought. What will happen when all of Woodbury will descend upon them?

The baby squirmed in awkwardness between the two adults and began crying once again.

Daryl let go of Samara as if burnt, fearing the fragile creature.

 _Of course. The day's not over yet._

Samara took a deep breath to dispel the physical and mental exhaustion. There was no time to wallow in grief or hopelessness. They had to look after the ones still alive, secure the prison and get this baby fed.

"Carl, come here."

As if on autopilot, the boy obeyed.

"Take your sister."

With numb arms, the boy took the newborn in his arms, staring listlessly at her.

Free of the burden, Samara turned to Daryl, who was already alert and aware of the situation. But one thing nagged at her mind ever since she laid her eyes on him minutes ago—

"What happened to you?"

His skin was bruised and crusted blood was splattered over his nose. But judging from the twin set of bruises Merle sported, Samara could guess what happened.

"Long story."

She left it at that. Later, when the storm passed, perhaps they would talk further. Right now, they both had a duty towards the group. As Samara left Daryl side, she heard the hunter call out to Rick. With cautious steps, she approached Alice who sat on the ground, dazed and confused. Patting her on the head, Samara startled her enough that she looked like a doe in the headlights.

The Native knew what ailed the young woman.

"There was no other choice, Alice."

"Really?" Alice murmured dejectedly, her tears still wet on her cheeks. "Then why do I feel like I just murdered her?"

"You didn't. That baby _alive_ was what Lori wanted above all else. You did the right thing."

Alice said nothing as she turned away from Samara and gazed off into the distance, lost to the world. There was nothing Samara could say that would put the young woman's heart at ease. For now, Alice would just have to deal with her doubts on her own. There were other people and other issues more important at hand.

Daryl was near the grieving man, who had gone eerily quiet. He too sported the same thousand yard stare, to which Daryl could not break him out of no matter how many times he snapped his fingers or shouted his name. The man was in shock, plain and simple. His wife's death had sent him over the edge into catatonia. Even if it broke Samara's heart to see him this devastated, she could not balk. The group's leader was incapacitated, they had to take control of the situation quickly before more panic set in.

"Daryl." The old farmer shouted as he held the small infant in his arms. "The baby's healthy, but she needs formula. And soon, or she won't survive."

With a deep sigh, the hunter nodded and rose to his feet, leaving Rick to his silence. He too knew what needed to be done for the good of the group.

"Merle, Tyreese, Glenn, Michonne, Maggie, Samara, Andrea and Sasha! All of us have to secure the prison! Dale, you get everyone inside and keep them there! No one is to go out until we come back! Vamonos, people!" Moving through the throng of people, he caught hold of the younger Greene sister and whispered something to her.

The girl nodded, her doe eyes wide with resolve despite the fear and anguish wrecking her body. "I'll look out for him."

It was good that Daryl was taking the lead. Small wonder Rick trusted him above all the others with issues and problems concerning the group. It actually made Samara's skin tingle seeing him take charge of these ragtag people.

Movement at the corner of her eye.

Light seemed to have come on in Rick's consciousness as he all but jumped to his feet and picked up his abandoned axe, bringing on a new level of apprehension. An unresponsive Rick carrying a sharp axe was not good news. Everyone seemed to have caught up on his death march as he ran towards the gates, to the last bastion protecting them from the undead.

"Rick!"

Samara had no idea when she began running as the only thought in her head was to stop the madman from opening the gates. Wherever Rick's psyche was now it definitely wasn't in a good place, but that didn't mean he had the right to put them all in danger with his erratic behavior. She caught his arm just in time as he prepared to swing the axe upon the padlock keeping the gates shut, and for her troubles she was rewarded with an elbow to the face. Samara fell to her knees, dazed. Rick hadn't even tried controlling his strength and hit her full-force, leaving the Native stunned.

 _Ah, look at all those pretty spots._

But in the end, Rick could not withstand the brute force that was Tyreese and Daryl and succumbed to their strength. An ugly howl erupted from his deep within his throat as he was immobilized on the ground. It was a necessary action as the former sheriff had threatened the security of their household, no matter how gut-wrenching the sorry sight of him was. Even his own son stared with empty gaze as his father was eventually hit over the head into unconsciousness, to stop his screams from further enticing the undead.

The silence that followed was damning.

* * *

Samara sat at one of the tables near the exit of the building, a cold towel over the left side of her face. There was an awful pounding in her skull that made her see double and her skin tingled strangely as it swelled, all courtesy of Rick and his attempt at a KO by elbow. Thankfully, the man was now blissfully out of cold in his own cell. It was for the best. Rick might not be in his right mind for a while judging from his extreme reaction. Understandable as the only woman he'd ever known was now gone from his life, having died just a small distance away from him. The torment from that thought alone must have sent him spiraling down in devastation.

There were others around her, either pacing anxiously or sitting at the small tables, speaking in hushed tones. An electrifying current was in the air, almost palpable on the skin. Everyone was still too riled to lower their guard, expecting another attack at any moment. Samara was not worried. That had been a warning of things to come. A show of force. The Governor just wanted to see the group running and hiding, to let them know that their quarrel was not over yet and that he was still as strong as ever. She might not have seen him, but the Native was a hundred percent sure he had been among the shooters. The man would not have been able to resist such a temptation.

 _Bastard!_

A bang reverberated in the half empty room, captivating the acute attention of the others. Samara had crashed her fist into the top of the table in anger, jump starting the other occupants. Her mind latched onto the Governor and his surprise attack, not at all aware that the others were giving her strange looks.

 _That motherfucker!_

Who did that man think he was to barge in their house, guns blazing? Who did he think he was to indiscriminately kill their people? Axel and Lori were but the first, and Samara knew deep down that more would follow. The Governor would not be satisfied with so little blood spilt, and that both angered and frightened her. Not for her sake, but for the others. How many more would have to die until that man finally fell from his high perch? How many more would have to suffer for retribution? Because that was why they were continuing this battle—for vengeance. Samara knew she was and so was Michonne and Glenn, and in some measures even Rick, although he was more focused on protecting his group that retaliation for the pain suffered at the hands of the Governor.

Samara had no doubt. She wanted a war for what happened in Woodbury and she would not stop for anything in the world. An eye for an eye, as the saying went. But when she looked at the aftermath left in the wake of two deaths she felt a tiny spark of reluctance. In the end, would it be worth it?

Another cry.

Carl was attempting to bottle feed his little sister under the watchful eyes of Hershel, but the baby was a fussy thing, half the time refusing the milk and crying out inconsolably…Or perhaps the baby felt Carl's dark mood along with the smell of blood and death still clinging to his clothes. That poor boy, Samara thought. He just lost his mother and had to shoot her in the spam of an hour. He will never recover from it.

Beth seemed to be in heaven despite the dark atmosphere. She cooed and gushed over the baby, attempting to calm it, a bright smile on her face. Samara could not see anything joyous about the situation, even if there was a newborn baby. Lori's blood was still on the Native's hands, crusting and flaking while she smoked cigarette after cigarette. Dale had tried speaking to her, but surrendered once Samara gave only answers in the form of grunts or complete silence. She did not feel like talking at the moment. Samara herself was in shock, a milder version but one that jarred her nonetheless. She had seen many people die, some peacefully while others in a gruesome fashion, but never like that. Never so accepting or so willing to die for another being. In that moment, Lori had been braver than all of the others combined. Samara could at least respect that.

—But Samara still could not wash away the image of Lori's stomach cut open and the baby being pulled out.

A shiver wrecked her body just as the heavy metal door opened and in walked the cavalry, more or less the same haggard and high-strung.

Daryl was the last to enter as he observed the room and its occupants, his hawkish eyes never missing a detail. The pressure seemed to lighten off his tense shoulders once he was satisfied enough that everyone still alive was in one piece. Lastly, his gaze settled on Samara, on the damaged side of her face and his brows furrowed. She knew that look and responded accordingly.

A lackluster wave— _A bruise, is all._

The frown lessened but Samara could still sense his worry. Unfortunately for that, she could do nothing, but the Native still felt a flicker of warmth for his concern.

With brisk steps, the hunter reached the old farmer's side, blue eyes intent on the baby.

"How's she doin'?"

"She keeps cryin' even after we fed her." Beth responded with apprehension.

And then Daryl did something that shocked Samara completely, and probably some other people in the room—he took the baby in his arms. The towel slipped from her fingers as she stared flabbergasted at the sight of this burly, brusque man, someone that hissed and threatened whenever challenged, who cursed like a sailor and could kill without remorse hold this tiny human being with the utmost care as if holding the world's most precious jewel. The gentleness in his touch and softness in his voice left Samara's brain vacant. She could not believe that Daryl fucking Dixon was _cooing_ over a baby.

"Shh." He hushed the willful girl, rocking her lightly in his arms. If the man knew how _bizarre_ he looked with that infant he might not have attempted it in the first place, but something told Samara that even if he knew he would not care. He seemed engrossed in those small, chocolate brown eyes.

Gradually, the baby quieted down and accepted the bottle without any further protest.

"You like that? Huh?" Daryl chuckled throatily, his smile filled with tenderness. "Little ass-kicker."

The others chuckled at the nickname and the room seemed a little less gloomy as tensions defused steadily. To Samara, though, she only felt the need to bolt as quickly as possible, away from this heartwarming scene before her. It was just too much.

"That's a good name, right? You like that, sweetheart? Little ass-kicker."

 _Oh gods…_

As Samara almost reached the exit of the prison, a scratchy voice stopped her dead in her tracks. Apparently, she had not slipped away quite as unnoticed as she had wished.

"Too sugary for you?" Merle asked with his eyes firmly locked on his younger brother. He might not show it, but Samara could sense his disbelief over this atypical situation. "Don't blame you. I got cavities just by lookin' at it."

There was no answer to give him. She was running away, plain and simple, but not entirely because it was too sweet. She had other demons on her mind, dancing on the edge with dark promise. A good distraction was what she needed and she knew where she could find it.

* * *

Peering down at her, Samara felt a hollow sadness envelope her. Lori looked similar to a deflated balloon than an actual human being. Samara could not even see her as a person anymore, just an object that needed to be disposed of, and unfortunately, she had to be the one to do it.

With a small sigh, the Native threw a white sheet over the body, finally giving the woman some decency. Her death might have been gruesome but that did not mean the post mortem had to be as well. Samara did not dislike the woman _that_ much. They might have had their quarrels and arguments but Samara had never wished her any harm. Lori had been just an overprotective mother with too many problems to juggle at once.

Wrapping up the corpse, Samara almost grimaced at the wet feeling it left on her arms. Blood and inner fluid still clung to the woman and if moved the wrong way, more would spill out of the cut in the abdomen. A nightmarish sight and even more horrendous smell, but Samara braved through it. Lori could not continue to decompose in their only medical room while they hid like frightened rabbits.

With a grunt, the Native lifted the body and was surprised at the weightlessness of it. Not light as a feather, but not exactly as heavy as she thought the woman to be. Even so, her old pains came knocking igniting tiny spark of discomfort throughout the muscles of her back.

 _This is going to be troublesome._

A rustle behind her and Samara almost dropped the body in reflex to get her gun. Merle stood at the foot of the door, watching her with those predatory eyes of his, and yet…they seemed to lack their usual wicked shine. A pale imitation, he almost looked tired.

Those same eyes that Daryl possessed swept over the now crimson spotted sheet and made a motion towards him.

"Give her here. You look just about to break your back."

Surprised at his humanity, Samara stood frozen, unable to decide on what to do. On one hand, carrying Lori again would leave her sore until tomorrow but on the other she did not trust this man. He was Merle Dixon, after all. But the beginning of a tremble in her arms told her that it would be wiser to accept his offer. It was a long road towards the grave site and she had already dragged another body not too long ago. One more would leave her stiff as a board.

With careful steps, she walked over to Merle and handed Lori over. No surprise there that Merle didn't break a sweat carrying her around.

"Where to?" Merle asked once they walked down the darkened hallways of the prison.

"Back of the prison. The graves…We can't reach them right now, and I can't have her rot until we clean up the fields." Which would take some time. Probably, a very _long_ time.

Merle nodded silently and followed the Native outside. Wary of any snipers, Samara's gaze flew across the fields and forest searching for that hidden threat, but all there was were the undead groaning and rattling the chains ever now and then thanks to her previous outing.

The silence was disturbing just as the first time she came outside. There was nothing in the air, only dead silence. Even nature seemed to have come to a halt in the wake of the attack—no birds chirped, no crickets sang. The world was encased in a tomb, fitting the mood currently felt at the prison.

—Those dark times that she feared were close were now at their doorstep, splintering the wood.

Passing the buildings, the duo ended up in the baseball fields where the grass had grown to thigh-high length and looked as wild and verdant as ever, now untouched by human hands. The game field lay forlorn surrounded by lush vegetation. How long had it been since the baseball game? Samara felt like a lifetime had passed since those days where worries like the Governor and an impending war didn't even cross their minds. If only they could relieve that moment forever…

Merle settled the corpse next to the other wrapped in dirtied white. Without any respect, the older Dixon toed the lean form curiously.

"Who's this?"

"Axel."

"Ah yeah, the inmate."

Samara wasn't even mad. The chances of him actually noticing Axel had been rather slim. The inmate was the type of person people lost sight of at first glance. Lanky, nervous and of small stature, he was insignificant to the eye. But once you knew him and got past his southern 'charm', you found a good person. Misguided in life, but with more principle than most _civilized_ people.

It wasn't much, but this was all Samara could offer them. A nice resting place beside a good memory was more than what one could ask for in these times.

Picking up a shovel, Samara began to dig. She had a long way to go and it would be best if she didn't dawdle. Danger still lurked and she'd rather not be caught unprepared a second time.

Merle still lingered, smoking and cigarette and watching the Native with astute eyes. Whatever his thoughts were about, Samara had no way of knowing. The man was mostly a closed book enforced with iron bars. A peak inside was impossible.

"Why you doin' this?"

"Carl is still in shock and Rick is unstable." Samara grunted as she cut through the soil. "They can't do this."

"That don't mean _you_ have to."

"Someone has to."

Merle remained silent after that, content on watching her dig until her arms ached. Perhaps he thought her a fool for sacrificing time and effort on the dead that had no emotional tie to her and some part of her agreed with that. Lori had neither been friend nor family. They were just two people forced to live together under extreme circumstances. So then, why? Because of Rick or was there a spark of guilt deep within her belly?

The sun was close to setting, basking them in warm colors that reminded them of this bloody afternoon. Samara was sweating bullets at this point, her T-shirt damp and stuck to her skin like oily glue, but there was no stopping. The deed had to be finished.

Her companion had been suspiciously quiet. Merle merely sat and smoked cigarette after cigarette making her wonder if he had a stash somewhere she could plunder. Being under his intense scrutiny wore off in the first half hour, her mind delving into her graves and dark thoughts. His presence had been reduced to background noise that at times she even forgot. All for the best, she'd rather do this grim task in silence.

A tsk.

"You realize that without the sheriff, y'all just a headless chicken trippin' around."

"Daryl can lead us until Rick gathers his wits." Samara said without breaking a step. Until the man came to, Daryl and some of the others will have to pick up the mantle and lead forth. They could not have chaos on their hands right now, no matter how dire it looked.

"If he ever will." Merle scoffed derisively, displaying no faith in the Kentucky sheriff. "Governor won't wait. If he knew what's going on right now, he'd turn right round and bring all of Woodbury down here. But he don't. No…" His eyes shone menacingly as the burnt end of the cigarette lit up with a deep inhale. Two jewels cutting into her and watching her every gesture for weakness. "That was just a taste of what's to come. One short attack leavin' two people dead and now, you're down to sixteen. Not a great prospect for y'all."

"For _you_ as well." Her tone was sharp. "You came back."

Merle grimaced, not at all happy of being reminded. "Unluckily."

The bruises on his face caught her attention again. Whatever for the brothers fought over she did not care seeing as Daryl presumably won the argument, although she had an idea. They were both back in one piece and that was all that mattered

Thinking on the attack again, Samara still felt a slitter of disbelief fog her brain. How easily this day had been thrown upside down in the matter of an instant, and it only took one bullet. It will take a long time for the others to recover emotionally, especially since they took everything to heart. But one thing was sure—they will _never_ forget.

"I didn't think he'd come so soon…" A week had barely passed and the Governor already knocked on their door, his threatening presence making itself known. Whatever Michonne had done to him couldn't have been that grave if he was already capable of taking road trips.

Merle chuckled hollowly. "Governor has a way of surprisin' you. In a _bad_ way. He'll come back, and when he does it'll be full out war. He's gonna bring in the _big_ guns." With a silent rustle, Merle got to his feet, his cigarette a forgotten dream. "So, if I were you, I'd keep everyone inside. No more strollin' in the sun and playin' volleyball."

Samara continued to dig, not once looking at his departing back. She would never know why he had decided to remain with her out in the open especially after what he proclaimed. Perhaps it had been a whim. Either ways, Samara did not care. She had bodies to relocate.

Wiping her sweat covered forehead, she approached the first casualty.

"Hey, Axel." She looked down on his short form with an air of finality. In death, it seemed as if the inmate became even more scrawny and tiny, like a dried up raisin. "You enjoying those beers yet? I bet you are. You're just relaxing in some comfy lawn chair, opening a couple of beers with Oscar, laughing down at us—the ones still alive and suffering. What a shitty joke this is, huh?" The Native chuckled cynically. "Maybe you had the right idea and death is more preferable to this godforsaken life. You think you can enjoy a beer out here? You're dead wrong, because someone can see the beer. And your happiness. And you chair, and they want that for themselves. They will kill you for your bliss that by right should be theirs."

Samara grimaced as her mind got filled with noxious poison called hate and disdain. In that moment, she hated everything. From the trees to the rocks to the innocent people still left alive to the monsters that roamed this earth and even to the ones she called friends. They were all animals waiting to butcher one another. There was no other way of living, only through violence and greed. Peaceful coexistence was but an illusion of the weak minded. Peace was only gained once you became one with the earth and let the maggots eat the putrid remains. Axel and Lori found true peace as they began rotting, leaving Samara to endure their growing stench.

Her cold eyes found Axel once more, not a shred of emotion in those jade marbles. The sudden anger all but evaporated leaving nothing behind but a hollowness that threatened to swallow her whole.

"I didn't know you much, Axel, but you were a part of us. You saw me when I was at my lowest and you didn't judge me for it, even though I belittled and cursed you at every opportunity. You did some dumb shit through your life, but who doesn't'? Well…" She snorted, a ghost of amusement in her words. "Maybe not rob a store with a water pistol, but still."

The last of the sun's rays vanished behind the rich forest as night was ready to take up its place and bask the world in darkness.

"Rest in peace, man. Drink a cold one for me."


	49. Some Wounds Don't Heal

The silence was killing her.

Any other time, Samara would have relished in it. Sometimes the chirping of crickets and night critters could be a bother but now it only reminded her that the undead were still around, vigilant for any signs of fresh meat.

The graves had been finished some two hours ago and now the Native sat, contemplating the events of today and the grim days to come. What was there to do now? Should they keep on fighting or was running the best option? More and more her thoughts revolve around the second option. What could the others possibly gain from staying put except for more suffering and death? They were in a harsh position. Half probably wanted out while the few wanted to fight back for today's transgression. They would not reach an understanding soon, and Rick…He will definitely want to retaliate once his senses come back. But one thing was for certain, Samara _will_ fight. She would not give up now, even after Lori and Axel's death. Her bruised ego and sense of justice would not let her.

"What do you say, Lori? Should we fight?"

Silence was her only answer.

Samara scoffed, not surprised. Lori had avoided her like the plague, interacting only if it was necessary. Had suited Samara just fine, to be honest. It wasn't like they had had much to talk over.

"We never got along, did we Lori? We were just too different. I was the opposite of everything you were, as you were the anti of me." Her eyes sharpened as she looked at the fresh mound of earth, indicating Lori's final resting place. "To be truthful I don't think I even wanted to. We had nothing in common except for Rick and even that you hated. There was nothing between us, by the way, despite what you thought. You had a great guy on your hands. True, he's got his faults, but who doesn't? You knew that, but we all make mistakes and some can't be so easily fixed…" Her mind wandered to days past, when all they had to worry was Shane not blowing a fuse. Those were the _good_ days. "Rick didn't kill Shane, Lori. Your son did. Carl protected Rick. No matter how much Shane wanted to be the head of your family, he could never replace Rick. Even your son saw that. I guess, in a way, you saw that too."

Otherwise, she would have shunned Rick and started a new life alongside that man. But, Samara guessed the woman's survival instincts kicked in and she lingered with the safest choice.

"I know you still loved Rick, even after all the troubles that happened between you two. I could see you sometime staring after him longingly. You must have been so _lonely_ these past few months, but you both brought it on yourselves." Cruel, but it was the truth. Each had equal faults in how their marriage and relationship crumbled to dust. But, the yearning had still been there. "Rick loved you. I know you thought he didn't after Shane and the baby, but he still did. He was just scared and exhausted. Nobody wants to go through heartbreak a second time, you know? Plus, I think he wanted to punish you a bit with his detachment."

And now, oh how much he must regret it. As the saying went, only when something is gone do you truly miss it.

"He's not alright." That was little to say. "Rick didn't take the news lightly. I hope that he picks up the pieces sooner rather than later, because right now we don't have the luxury of grieving. We need to be united because this war is not a fantasy anymore. It's _painfully_ clear."

As selfish as it sounded, all of them needed Rick to be in the present right now. He, out of all of them, had the most reason to remain catatonic but he couldn't. He shouldn't be allowed because without his guidance they might not make it through another attack. Like it or not, he was the leader and he had to do his duty. Grieving came later. She just hoped Rick would come to that realization as well.

"We can't die now. Not after we had to cut you open and pull out that pruny, screaming mandrake out of you…Not after I had a hand in killing my friend's wife."

That will haunt her for a while. Not just the notion of it, but the image…Samara winced. That damned woman brought the demons out. Her with her sacrifice and her screaming baby. Samara had been trying to block them out for half the day, but nothing seemed to appease her tormented mind. In the end, Samara would just have to bear through the onslaught, as draining as it was.

"You know…" She felt her lips moved before she could even stop them, the words just pouring out. Bitter and acidic they were. "I had a kid a year before the virus spread. He didn't make it." Those were some of the darkest hours of her life, and the main reason for her marriage deteriorating. If there had been a chance she could have avoided the situation entirely, she would have chosen it gladly. Nothing was worth that much suffering. "When Alice pretty much shoved your daughter in my arms I felt that nasty urge to drop her. To be as far away as possible."

Samara scoffed, a vile taste filling her mouth. "I never even got the chance—"

Like a jolt of electricity, Samara's lips closed and she instantly sobered. Perhaps it was instinct or just a lifetime of internalizing her problems that voicing out her grief felt like an alien action. Uncomfortable and unwelcome.

 _Stop. Just breathe._

With a few deep gasps, the tremble in her hands subsided, but the ever grey thoughts still circled above like carrion eaters after a fresh carcass. Some things were better just left in the dark.

With a heave, Samara rose to her feet. Her clothes were dirty with crusted blood and dirt. She stank of sweat and the dead. And even with all that, she still did not care. It was an everyday occurrence. Death was always around the corner.

The two graves stood forlornly under the silent gaze of the ivory moon. A taciturn observer, always watching and never sentimental. Some live some die, it was unavoidable. Only the lucky ones get to die peacefully and without pain, a rarity these days.

"Please, Lori." Samara gave the woman's final resting place one last look. A cold, but imploring one. "Don't look to me to take care of that baby. I can't do it. I'm not good with small, fragile creatures. My hands are for breaking, not caring. I got that kid out of you, as you wanted, but that's where I cross the line."

She will not be a surrogate mother, not even a friend. Samara was far too jaded to even be considered left around small children. Some of the other women will have to take that role. Carol, most likely. She was the only one, beside Michonne, with child rearing experience. Michonne was another no go case. She, like Samara, was far too down the rabbit hole. But…The least Samara could do was to protect that baby from all harm. That much she could do.

With a small prayer in her native language, Samara said her farewells to the sheriff's wife.

"Find peace, Lori, wherever you are."

* * *

As Samara walked inside the cell area she was immediately greeted by the entire group, discussing heatedly. From the looks of it they had been talking over for a while now. Nobody but Daryl and her two companions seemed to have noticed her late arrival. Merle, who was the closest to her, did not even give a second glance to her dirty countenance.

Leaning against the wall, Samara popped another painkiller. Before joining the others, she had made it a priority to visit the medical wing. Her body was killing her as even her bones felt sore. It was a wonder she could still walk around let alone stay upright. The strain of today's horrors had all but exhausted her body beyond limits. She would not sleep peacefully tonight.

"We can't stay here!" Hershel roared in his soft tones, fear written all over his old features. Understandable, since the farmer had more to lose if they went to war.

"Rick says we're not running, we're not running." Glenn countered resolutely. He paced relentlessly, a disturbed look about his face.

Merle scoffed, his arms crossed in annoyance. "No, better to live like rats."

"You got a better idea?" Daryl hissed from his vantage point near his cell. The chill in his glare was undeniable.

"Yeah, we should've slid out here last night and lived to fight another day. But we lost that window, didn't we?" Merle too displayed the same arctic courtesy. "I'm sure he's got lookouts on every road out of this place by now."

"We ain't scared of that prick!"

A peculiar shadow seemed to dawn over Merle's features.

"Y'all should be." Samara felt a shiver roll down her spine. Merle's tone was cool and as sharp as a scalpel. Even his eyes burned with a cold fire. "That truck through the fence thing…that's just him ringin' the doorbell. We might have some thick walls to hide behind, but he's got the guns and the numbers. And if he takes the high ground around this place, he could just starve us out if he wanted to."

A pin could drop and the sound would have been deafening. Everyone listened with their breaths held and their hearts frozen in their throats. This was not a scary story Merle was voicing around the campfire for entertainment. This was the truth and, sometimes, it was more terrifying than fiction.

"When the Governor returns, he's gonna kill me first." Merle looked at them all with nothing reflecting in those deep blue pools but the simple truth. "Michonne, Samara, my brother."

Samara felt her skin pinprick. She knew that that was the only end for her if caught, but hearing it out loud didn't fail to curdle her stomach. And the others…Olive clashed with blue and Samara knew that if she would ever be subjected to watching her friends, Daryl and Rick die before her…Samara swore that what was left of her humanity would fade away like a forgotten memory. She'd rather use her last resort plan than to go through that and live for tomorrow.

"Glenn, Carl, the baby, whoever else is left…" Merle showed no mercy as he listed them all. "He'll save the sheriff for last so he can watch his family and friends die ugly. That's who you're dealin' with."

The tension in the air was suffocating. Merle's words had the desired effect as everyone sat on edge of theirs bearings. Samara could see the change. Fear was a powerful incentive and now most of them wanted to leave. She could see it in their furtive gaze.

"Lori and Axel are dead." Never once did Hershel raise his voice, but the effect was all the same. "I said we should leave. We can't just sit here, not anymore."

"We need to speak to Rick." Dale intervened. He was a simple man. He looked towards their leader because without Rick, most of them would be lost. "We can't do this without him."

"After what happened down in the Tombs…" Glenn grimaced at the memory of it. "I don't think he's in a listening mood."

Confusion settled in her bones. Rick was in the Tombs? Why? The only thing that moved down there were the stray walkers. What the hell was he doing there and why had he been left alone? All those questions and no one to answer as everyone turned to Merle once he began speaking.

"You want my advice? You keep everyone inside. Nobody goes out unless it's for a good fuckin' reason. Y'all still got enough hidey-holes for sentries in case the Governor is feelin' bloodthirsty again."

Glenn nodded determinedly, his spine straightening. In these moments, Samara swore that the kid grew a few inches taller. Confidence was indeed a great booster.

"Four's enough. Dale, myself, Sasha and Andrea will take the first shift. I know everyone is tired but we have got to pull through tonight. Carol, Beth, I want you two to move all the food and water we still have left here. In the morning, you're going to make an inventory of it. Alice and Hershel, that goes for the medicine as well. We don't know for how long we'll be closed off to the outside and I'd rather we stay in one place for the time being. Carl, stay here with your sister. Tyreese, Samara and Michonne bring all the guns and ammo from the armory in here as well as the suits. We're going to need them close. Daryl and Merle, you bring the supplies you found in Hampton here. The sentries will be your cover."

Like ants they dispersed, everyone intent on their assigned task. It was better this way. Everyone kept themselves busy, instead of brooding over their uncertain fate as well as their recent losses. It didn't escape Samara's notice that some of them sported puffy, red eyes.

Samara had passed the grieving process. Her conscious was almost clear concerning the two dead, but what bothered her more was the fact that she could not rest. She was so _tired_ that she was literally grabbing at straws of energy to keep herself upright. She knew that Glenn's request was rational, but for the life of her she did not know if she could follow through.

As if sensing her plight, Michonne materialized near Samara. "Where were you?"

"Digging."

The woman paused before nodding understandingly. Something was off though. Michonne's body was tense, her eyes furtive and alert, and there was an eerie sheen over her eyes. Samara might have attributed it to adrenaline if she had not known the woman, but this was something else and Samara recognized it at once. PTSD was horrible when it made itself known. The Native sympathized and that old feeling of hopelessness came back to bite her as the only thing she could do was watch and wait until her friend's madness passed.

"You look like shit."

Samara would have laughed is she had the strength for it.

"I feel like shit. Everything _hurts_."

"…I'll handle the guns with Tyreese then. You rest."

 _We both need some rest._

"I can't. Not yet." Samara showed the woman the tiny plastic bottle she nicked from Hershel's supplies. "These'll keep me on my feet."

Any other time Michonne would have frowned at her old habits coming back to life, but now there was only emptiness in those coffee orbs. She was somewhere far away, where Samara could not reach even if she tried.

"Michonne, what happened with Rick?" The Native was seriously concerned for the man and his current mental state. After Lori, the last thing Rick needed was to be left to wander on his own.

"He woke up and left for the Tombs."

"Just like that? Nobody tried to stop him?"

"Not when he picked up an axe."

Samara cursed foully. The sheriff must have left to vent his madness in the only way possible without repercussions—killing walkers.

 _Goddammit…If he dies down there…_

* * *

With practiced flourish Milton wrote down names upon names of people he knew. Alex, Nancy, Morrison, Daniel, Erica…All neighbors and friends enumerated for the sole purpose of war.

As per the Governor's order he was putting together a list of Woodbury inhabitants capable of holding a firearm. To his utter disapproval, he had to write down the old and infirm and children as young as thirteen. In the man's view, even children were perfectly capable of shooting a target. And what then? What if they kill someone? How will they ever live past the notion that they had taken a human life? A burden of such a scale could might as well destroy them both physically and mentally. _They_ were the adults. _They_ were the ones meant to protect them, not send them into a war zone.

How did it come to this, Milton thought sorrowfully as he became more and more engrossed in the curves of his letters. Not a month ago Woodbury was just a happy little corner in this world of despair, nothing could have disturbed their peaceful lives…and then Samara came. Not that she was at fault, but Milton could see that she had been the cataclysm for future events. It was because of her that her group came searching. It was because of that group that the Governor ended up in this vengeful, mad state. It was because of that anger that now they were at war and making lists for the Reaper himself.

 _Butterfly effect…_

The pen fell and Milton massaged his heavy brow. They had not even started this battle and Milton already felt the heaviness of it, crushing his brain. He did not wish to be here, stuck in this situation, but the man pacing before him would not let him leave. They had been discussing and arguing since first daylight, and still Milton had not managed to dissuade him from this bloodied path. Nothing will be gained from it, only death and fire.

"Why are we doing this, Governor? Sending children to war…" Even the spoken words left a bitter taste in his mouth. "Over what? A building? Your pride?"

The man paused in his methodical pacing. His lone eye assessed Milton with a hawk's intensity. Even now, Milton could see the destruction that woman had caused. Was there even Philip anymore? Or did the Governor reign supreme now?

"Milton, you know I value you above all the others and not just for your expertise. You are my friend, but this is not somethin' you can change." A shadow fell over his features, setting them in stone. "This war _will_ happen. These people have done enough harm."

"Haven't we also done enough? Can't we just agree to live as neighbors that don't speak or see each other?" _Wouldn't that be easier?_

The man scoffed derisively. "You're naïve, Milton. We can't ignore each other, no more than we can ignore the biters. It's in man's nature to fight. After yesterday, if those people are smart, they'll pack up and leave. If that happens, I will not pursue. But they got to leave, one way or the other."

Somewhere in the back of Milton's mind there was a slither of a doubt. Governor wasn't the kind of person to just let it be, even if it was out of his sight.

"Why didn't you try to negotiate with them? You promised you would."

"I did and I tried as _promised_ , but they wouldn't listen. They're bloodthirsty."

Another doubt, yet he wasn't crazy enough to voice it. In the end, what other choice did Milton have than to follow his friend, his leader? He was not brave enough to face this world on his own, and so, he remained in the Governor's shadow, led to an uncertain future.

But as those dark blue eyes roved over the names, the acrid taste became more prominent. Milton feared even mouth wash wouldn't be enough to get rid of this tang. No…this was not a taste caused by a certain food or drink. This was the taste of _fear_.

"You can't let Noah train." The man's voice sharpened with distress. "The boy has asthma. He can't run more than ten yards before losing his breath. What good is that to you?"

"If he can hold a gun, he's fit."

As he looked over the list more attentively, as more and more names passed his alert consciousness, their images came to mind with all their imperfections and troubles. So many there that had no reason to pick a gun. So many that couldn't fight because of pains or birth defects or old age.

 _This can't be happening._

All these people will die if he didn't do something, Milton just knew it. Either they will shoot themselves out of pure inexperience or get shot by the likes of Samara and Merle. Milton held no illusions that the two would spare anyone from Woodbury, and neither has Woodbury given them any. They were the type to shoot first ask questions later, if any. There will be no mercy, no peace not as long as they just stood by and let this war happen. Milton had to do something because nobody else will. But even the thought of that had his stomach in knots. He was neither a fighter nor a leader. He shouldn't be the one to stop this madness, but what other choice was there? The Governor had a one track mind that led to bloodshed, the others in Woodbury either didn't care, relished the thought of blood and death or were simply too scared to raise their voices. Nobody was left but him.

The man swallowed the lump in his throat and noticed deprecatingly that his throat had gone extremely dry. His hands trembled and Milton knew that he was scared to his very bones. But even so—

The question came out in a wave of incomprehensible blurted words the first time, leaving the Governor with a look of mild annoyance and amusement. Milton had to take a deep breath to calm his nerves and his embarrassment and rearrange his words until it was understandable in human language.

"What if I went?"

"To the prison?" Governor scoffed derisively, most likely entertaining the thought of skittish Milton walking over there through a throng of biters.

"I could talk to them. Break a truce." But even as he spoke it he himself doubted his accomplishment. "No more bloodshed is needed."

The disdainful look the Governor gave him actually cut deep.

"They'll stick you before you open your mouth."

"I'm not a threat. Merle and Samara know that. They'll listen to what I have to say without violence."

Merle viewed him as a harmless little kitten, he even said so. The weakest of the litter. And Samara was probably not far away in her thinking. He didn't blame them, Milton himself knew he was weak. He could never best them or anyone in a fight. That moment with the Hispanic, that had been pure luck. Milton's hands had been shaking so badly it had been a miracle that he managed to deal a mortal wound.

But what if, on the off chance, both decided not to listen and send his head back to Woodbury in a box? No, Milton shook his head of such a paranoid thought. It was possible that Merle would turn deaf, but Samara would listen. Hearing both sides and maybe coming to an agreement would be preferable to full out war. That much Milton knew she was reasonable enough.

"Why do you believe that, Milton?" The look the Governor wore told Milton what the man thought of his ridiculous plan. "Because I let her be your little assistant? Because she drank your tea and ate your sandwiches? That woman is a _predator_. She was surveyin' you, your strengths, your weaknesses and tagged you as easy prey. A mouse to toy with. She even nicked off a scalpel from you because you started trustin' her."

Milton bit his lip. He didn't want to believe that. If Samara had been like that she would have never come to him. She would have never given him those words of comfort. But then again, what _did_ he know about her? He wanted—no, he _needed_ to believe she was a rational person. That she would not shun him away when the moment they met face to face once more, and that maybe she would keep him safe from the wrath of the others. Milton was not foolish enough to think there won't be some backlash for yesterday's actions, but he did hope they would not unleash their anger on him.

Even so, Milton still had to do it. What if's and possibilities were not enough to stop him. This conflict needed to end, and Milton needed to know if it could be resolved peacefully.

"Governor—No, Phillip." Perhaps appealing to the man underneath the Governor's skin would have better results. "Let me talk to them before you march to war. We could avoid killing entirely and maybe reach a common ground. It doesn't have to be blood. Please. I know you lost Penny—"

A dark shadow with promises of agony loomed over his features. It even set Milton on edge, but he had to keep on talking lest he lose his courage.

"I had hoped that my experiments would bring her back, but what's done is done. We hurt them deeply and in return, they killed some of our own. But it has to end there. If we go to war for something as insignificant as territory or power, we are no more alive than those things outside feasting on flesh. We're still _human_ , Phillip. Please, let me try." _I_ have _to try._

His leader's silence stretched on, seemingly infinite.

* * *

There was blood everywhere.

Pooling on the floor. Smudged against the walls. Painted across his hands. Spattered on his shirt. Everywhere…

But Rick did not mind as he sat motionlessly on the floor, his eyes staring out into space vacantly. Nothing seemed to disturb his eerie tranquility, not even the stench of the undead lying butchered around the corridor hall. There wasn't much Rick remembered, except for all consuming pain and anger. It had practically left him blind and deaf to everything around him, his only focus the undead, hacking and slashing at them until there were none left standing. The dark halls were finally quiet now.

The man did not know how much time had passed here in the darkness. He vaguely recalled that Glenn had approached him at one point, but Rick had sent him away. He had not been in any state of mind to listen to the younger man's pleas. He still wasn't as his thoughts jumbled and dissipated only for a whirlwind of memories to assault his fragile mind. And to flee from those ugly thoughts Rick swung his axe with all the fury and power he could muster. It was his only escape, his only break from this harsh, cruel reality.

Lori was _dead_.

He was not ready to admit that. Everything was too raw, the wound gaping in his chest and revealing no heart but a mutilated organ weeping sorrowful blood. She dominated his every waking thought. Only her. Only the memories they shared. Every touch and kiss. Every smile and tear. Every argument and laugh. They were his punishment for not being there for her when she needed him. He had left her alone in her most dire hour, focused on other problems that should not have been his in the first place. She had died alone with two strangers while Carl had to watch helpless as his mother withered away.

In the peak of his insanity Rick's thoughts turned to his dead friend. Had this been Shane's revenge? Had he reached from beyond the grave and taken Lori away from him as punishment for taking his life? If so, then he had accomplished his task. Rick was in pieces, Carl was dead inside and that… _thing_ …that was Shane's by blood was still alive. A constant reminder of his failure as husband and man, and Lori's deception.

 _Are you laughin' now Shane, wherever you are? Lookin' down on me and thinkin' what a fool I am?_

How he wished that he didn't care anymore. That all his sorrow would just float away and leave nothing but emptiness. Rick wanted nothing more than to burrow somewhere deep and dark and ever come out again. No other people, no worries, no stress. Just himself and a hollow mind and heart.

The former sheriff knew that above ground danger was lurking and that his group was worried of every moving shadow, but he could not join them. He could not lead them. He had not even been able to protect his wife, how could he be able to save all of them? They had been wrong. He was not a leader, had never wanted that title. He had just wanted to be with his family. The others would just have to go on without him, fight or flee, whatever they chose. Rick would remain here, in this tomb. This should be his grave; this dark, damp place with no light and no hope. Just a slow, endless sea of walkers until he finally collapsed from exhaustion and died. That was the least he deserved.

Ring.

Rick doesn't notice the faint sound, so engrossed in his dark thoughts.

Ring. Ring.

A twitch. The grieving man lifted his head slowly, a slither of awareness crawling into his being. _What is that?_

Ring. Ring. Ring.

On and on the sound went and like a walker, Rick sluggishly shuffled towards it, his grip firm on the axe. Past the maze-like corridors and into the boiler room where the beguiling ring became louder with each step. The room was barren save the large pipes and boilers, but in the corner he peaked a small wooden desk. The piece could barely be discerned with all the yellowed out papers and scattered pencils, but the small, black outdated telephone sitting on the edge was unmistakable.

Cautiously, as if waiting for the phone to jump up and bite him, Rick edged towards it. The ringing hadn't stopped, instead became more and more insistent, almost like it _needed_ to be picked up.

Gingerly, Rick answered.

"Hello?"

* * *

Samara tsked.

It still wasn't enough, even with the NASCAR track ammunition and guns. The Native's eyes surveyed the contents of their armory and was left with a bitter taste. The bullets from the track only fit the guns from there and the supply wasn't infinite, in actuality very limited. Counting yesterday's shower of bullets, it left them with half capacity. If another attack of that kind happened again, they would have no choice but to abandon the prison. Sticks and stones don't surpass bullets and guns.

—No matter how they looked at it, even with the new additions, they were still outgunned and outnumbered.

Samara sighed as she massaged her tired features. Nothing seemed to draw in their favor…

Outside, everything was quiet. They hadn't seen any movement since the shootout, not living either ways. But Samara didn't doubt Merle about the scouts posted around the roads and prison. The Governor was a meticulous man, he wouldn't let them escape. Not that easily, at least.

She did not know what to expect anymore. The Native had not anticipated the man to attack so randomly and so soon. It was clear that the Governor had destabilized them, and perhaps that had been his intent. Watch them run around like fearful rats. Or considering the man's sadistic nature, he had just wanted to see them suffering. Soon, the group would have to confer again and talk about their retaliation. They could not sit around and wait for that bastard to come back with even more soldiers. They had to think, they had to plan and _fast_. The noose around her throat tightened with each passing day sitting around and waiting.

A crunch.

"Couldn't carry any more than this."

Samara did not turn. She did not even look at him as he settled beside her, but she did feel him. His proximity pin-pricked her skin and sent a light shiver down to her tailbone.

"Doesn't matter if you brought twice as much. I don't know if it'll save us."

"You think we'll lose?"

"With Rick how he is, two people dead and our morale down…I don't know."

Once she emerged out of her cell this morning, Samara had given herself a few minutes to observe everyone as they ate breakfast. Despairing was the only attribute she could have given the mood this morning. Everyone kept their heads low, their talk consisted of short whispers and everyone jumped skittishly at the faintest sound. They were all on edge, waiting for the Governor to knock on their door once more and rain death upon them. They were wretched and they were _scared_. How will they ever win this fight when the future looked so dim?

The others needed hope. A reassurance that they will survive through this bloody storm, but the man capable of that was not here. He was down in the Tombs doing god knows what. And Samara doubted he would recover anytime soon.

"Morale ain't down." Daryl frowned. "Our hope is that baby's still alive. That's what matters."

Samara scoffed, disillusioned by his words. "It's a _baby_. It'll die pretty quickly. Nothing that small survives this world."

"She will. Little Ass-Kicker ain't that weak. She's got Rick's blood in her."

The scorn on her features was almost scalding. "I _very_ much doubt that."

"Fine." Daryl spat, annoyed by the look she was giving him as if he was an idiot for even saying that. "She's got _Shane's_ and he was a fighter despite how crazy he turned out to be. We ain't dead yet, Samara. As long as we stick together we can fight through this. I _know_ we can. Ain't nothin' we can't handle a long as we don't break apart."

The woman frowned at his words. The way he was looking at her—

Daryl cleared his throat once he understood how his words could have been interpreted. "I meant the whole grou—"

"I know what you meant."

Without another word, Samara turned and walked away. She needed to be as far away from him as possible right now. Phantom sensations were licking at her mind and stirring her black heart, and Samara would not have it. They were supposed to be dead and buried.

But luck was not on her side today as Daryl dogged her heels.

"What's wrong with you?"

 _So many things and no time to tell_. "Doesn't matter what we do, we just get kicked in the teeth at every opportunity."

"That's life, but we get up every time. We ain't weak and that asshole ain't gonna be the one to bring us down."

Samara stopped once she reached the entrance of her cell. The thought had been dominating her mind since yesterday and she had had no one to talk to with.

"…Maybe leaving doesn't sound so bad."

She threw a tentative peek over her shoulder to assess his response, and the hunter didn't fail her. Aversion and weariness contorted Daryl's frown.

"Not you too." The man sighed, almost tired to the bone of this topic of conversation. "We _ain't_ leavin'. That's that. I don't wanna die, but I ain't gonna run. Not with my tail tucked between my legs."

Samara rolled her eyes at his bravado. It was not about cowardice, but survival. Besides, she hadn't been ruminating over this option for herself. "I meant everyone else, not _me_. Most likely Michonne also. We got a bone to pick with the Governor. You can _all_ go."

Except for herself, Michonne, Rick and maybe Glenn, there was no one else that had a reason to fight the Governor. They had not suffered at his hand, nor have they lost a loved one. Perhaps if they were only a few, they could sneak inside Woodbury undetected and cut off the snake's head. The way Samara saw it, an assassination might be their only salvation.

"Now you're just talkin' crazy." Daryl scoffed at her idea, his brows twisted angrily. "Nobody gets left behind. You know me better than that. What's with you? You were the first to fight against the Governor, now you want us to run?"

Samara glowered. "That was before I had to watch a pregnant woman being cut open and letting her die for the sake of a squealing piglet. I've done a lot of bad things, Daryl. I can be brutal and vicious when I have to be, but…" She sighed, fatigue overcoming her once more. A few hours of sleep hadn't been enough to wash away yesterday's pains. "This was not something I want _anyone_ to experience. It's worse than torture."

She'd rather have the group far away than to go through brutalization and abuse in a small, dark room or beatings and dismemberment or the death of a loved one while they watched powerless to stop it.

"Lori asked you to, right?" Daryl's tone softened, a slither of sadness blending into his usually gruff voice. "It's not like you did it because you wanted."

"Doesn't matter. Her blood is still on my hands and Rick…" Samara winced, dreading the day Rick climbed out of his hole. She was afraid of what he might do, insane or not. "Does he blame me?"

"No." Daryl said resolutely. "He ain't all up in there right now, but I think even he understands the choices."

"Choices…" Samara sneered, hating that word. "Choosing between the greater evil and the lesser is not a choice. Whatever you do, it's still bad in the end. Why did I have to be the one to choose? I didn't ask for it. I have enough on my conscience without this heavy burden."

"It ain't your fault that Lori went into labor and it ain't your fault that she got shot." She knew his words were rational, but all it did was give Samara more grief. "Those assholes that caused all this are miles away, probably raisin' an army as we speak. Death happens, Samara. We got no control over it."

No, Samara just let the woman die, that's all. Whichever way she viewed it, Samara had a hand in Lori's death. She had been the one to decide in the end.

The silence between them stretched, as neither knew how to handle the other or even if they should. Even the air around them was electrifying. Samara wished she could reach out to the hunter, but knew that it was a false dream. The man had no love for her anymore. She was surprised he was even talking to her.

"Daryl…" Samara licked her dry lips. She needed to tell him, because there might not be another chance. She just hoped he would listen. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you about Merle."

Daryl took a deep breath, and Samara feared that he would shout at her again. Shun her. Rebuke her. But he did neither.

"I know why you didn't and I understand." Those blue eyes appraised her with deep weariness and despondency. "I would've done the same if I'd been in your place."

 _Eh?_

Her brows almost reached her hairline.

"You…do?" The shock was obvious. She had not expected him to even try to understand her reasons. This was not the outcome she had predicted.

The man's brow furrowed deeper. "I ain't as ignorant as you think."

"I didn't—" Samara shook her head, dissipating that thought. It wouldn't do good to start an argument. "Nevermind."

Daryl gave her one last look before he departed and to Samara's utter disappointment, he did not look back once. Then again…what did she expect? That he would jump into her arms? She had refused him, quite adamantly. But he understood. For that she was grateful.

And somewhere, deep within her heart, a spark of hope ignited.

* * *

The day had passed relatively smoothly and the sun was beginning to settle. Samara sat in one of the pigeon holes they set up to survey the outside of the prison, rifle and walkie-talkie across her lap and a crooked cigarette between her lips. Despite her alertness, she was bored and in pain. Yesterday's actions had not subsided her ache, instead she woke up with her four-fingered hand swollen, her dislodged arm tingling with pin stabs and her back tenderly rigid. Not to mention the black and blue bruise across her cheek.

 _A goddamn never-ending cycle of pain._

Hershel had advised her to rest throughout the day, but she could not afford that luxury. They needed every able body prepared and not sleeping away the day. Hershel had given her a tiny dose of painkillers, unaware that Samara herself had her own stash hidden on her person. It was better if the old man stayed in the dark lest he tried to take them away.

Out here in the quiet, Samara had time to think. In the end, it would be better if the group left. Live to fight another day because if they remained, the Governor would mow them down. There were other places, maybe even better places than the prison. This new world of theirs was not stationary. To live they had to keep on moving. That was something the others could not understand. They still held the mentality of when civilization still ruled this earth—a person needed a steady home to be content. Those foundations did not apply anymore.

If the others left, Samara would torch the prison. Just out of spite. If the Governor wanted it so badly, he could rebuilt it from scratch. And if he tried, she would wait and watch. Always in the shadows, she would stalk her prey with absolute patience. And when the time to strike came—days, weeks, months even—he would forever remember it.

Samara was still contemplating if an ambush would be better or picking them off one by one until only the Governor was left standing when she heard a repetitive bang on the stairs. Looking over the railing, rifle in hand, she discovered Hershel waddling up to her nest. Even from her vantage point, Samara could plainly see his exhaustion from the grueling climb.

 _Fool, he should've waited until my shift ended. He was no spring chicken anymore._

"What is it?"

The old man looked up, the echo traversing like a wave over the empty stairwell.

"It's Rick." Hershel heaved, wiping the sweat from his skin.

As if a switch had been flicked, Samara felt her insides twist and knot. Oh gods…was he dead? Her hands started trembling with anticipation as she descended the stair two at a time to reach the farmer. The demons danced at the edge once more and she was left with a burning sensation in her stomach.

"He didn't hurt anyone, if that's what you're wonderin'." _Oh, thank the gods_. Despite her relief, Samara almost wanted to slap the old man for making her worry. "I think the only person he's hurtin' is himself." The man looked her deeply and Samara knew she would not like what he would have to say. "He believes someone is talkin' to him through a telephone."

Her brain paused.

"…What?"

 _Oh gods, he went batshit._

The old man nodded gravely, sharing her disbelief. "Said he heard a phone and when he picked it up, someone was on the other line. A woman. She has a group and said she'd call back in two hours. I offered to wait with him, but he refused. He's slippin', Samara."

 _No shit._

Samara raked her hair. This was bad. Worse than that. Rick had hit the point of delusion in his grief. A dangerous slippery slope. One wrong step and they might lose him forever.

"We have to do somethin'."

 _Do what?_ Everyone dealt with grief in their own way. If this was Rick's path then Samara was reluctant to intervene. Right now, the Kentucky man did not need a helping hand. He needed to sort out his own heart. The loss of a loved one left the mind and spirit in disarray and only Rick could mend those broken pieces. Samara herself locked herself in an abandoned house and contemplated suicide when she realized her husband was dead, and Hershel…well, he pretty much kept his undead family in his shed. Neither Hershel nor Samara's words said would quicken that recovery process.

"I think…it would be best if we left Rick alone until he decides to join us again." Despite the words, Samara still felt like she was abandoning the man to his own demons. There was nothing she could do. Whatever words of comfort she could provide would fall on deaf ears. Rick was, by no means, in any state to listen to anyone's advice. He would, most likely, react violently.

"We can't leave him down there, Samara." Hershel pleaded with her, frustrated at her passivity. "The man is a danger to himself. What if he hurts himself?"

Samara very much doubted that scenario, but if it would appease Hershel's troubled thoughts—"Then sedate him and confine him to his cell."

"That would make it even worse."

Samara sighed, wary. This conversation was going nowhere. "What do you want from me, Hershel? You came to me for a reason."

"I want you to speak to him."

"…I can't."

Confusion marred his features before a spark of understanding lit up his faded blues.

"Because of Lori?"

Samara felt her discomforts accentuating. Her dislocated arm now pounded with soreness.

"I don't think what he needs right now is to see me since the last time he did, I was covered in Lori's blood. Besides, I don't know what to tell him. 'I'm sorry I had to kill your wife for the baby'?" _That isn't even his_. "We can't just chat over how she died like a couple of Gremlins. No, Hershel. Rick will come to us when he's ready."

He had too. Might not be today or tomorrow, but he will eventually.

But Hershel did not seem to share her thoughts.

"That might be too late. We're pressed for time." The man's entire body seemed to sag a few inches as tired shadows casted over his face. Since yesterday, Hershel seemed to have aged five years, his wrinkles more prominent on his features. There was an exhaustion about him that exposed the sadness and fear in his soul—the future was uncertain and he was afraid for his daughters.

"I know and we have to do what's best." Samara sighed, sharing the man's fatigue. She, too, was wary of what the future held, but she could not back down now. "If Rick can't go on, that doesn't mean we can't. You, Glenn, Daryl, Tyreese…You have to be strong. You can't let the others panic. They need hope that we'll get through this and that can't happen if they see your crack. It's bad enough that our leader broke, we can't have the others follow."

Those four had to carry this group. Already people looked to them for guidance and strength. They had to be the rock in the storm, and guide them all to the safe shore.

"What about you?"

"I'll be here, following your lead." She said firmly, before Hershel got any strange ideas. "I'm good at that. You won't see me breaking so easily."

Hershel nodded, understanding. It took a while for the man to descend the stairs, but Samara listened to the clang of his prosthetic with an air of uncertainty. What will happen with this group, she wondered sullenly.

The last of the sun's rays vanished behind the glass window, leaving Samara in the semi-dark to ponder this troubled dilemma.

* * *

Her steps were usually as silent as a mouse's. A habit she picked up since the world turned upside down. Useful in every situation, but right now Michonne's legs would not cooperate. They dragged and shuffled, but it did not seem to bother the woman. In fact, she could not even hear them past the turmoil in her mind. Her thoughts were aflame, her mind a bee's nest giving her no respite. Yesterday's destruction had set forth an avalanche of emotional suffering and Michonne felt like dying. There was no escape from it no matter how much she tried to ignore it, and she desperately had.

She knew that monster had been there, raining bullets upon them. Could have almost felt those spidery fingers on her skin once more and it had taken everything in Michonne's power not to lose control. The urge to rush headlong and cut that bastard's head off had been so tempting that she almost stepped into the fray, dooming herself.

And once it was over, she was met with casualties sparking the woman's hatred to levels beyond comparison. Anger had crawled into every nook and cranny of her being, filling her with a charred, soul-sucking wrath that it even frightened herself. With no one or nothing to vent it one, Michonne had had to bottle it up and keep a straight face. She could not break down at this dire hour. She needed to be strong, a pillar, even though inside she was withering away into a husk.

And it was starting to show. Day by day, she was weakening. She ate less, barely slept, and preferred the company of her own demons than the reassuring presence of friends and lovers. There were dark bags underneath her eyes, her constant state of hyper-vigilance was to the point of both physical and mental exhaustion, and the memories…they haunted her with no respite.

And she was so _tired_ of it.

Michonne could not do it alone anymore. Yesterday, she had almost fallen into Tyreese's arm and never let go just for the fact that he gave her a reassuring smile. Ever since she came back from Woodbury, the mere sight of him had her running. She could not endure his affections, not after what happened. She was tainted now. If he knew…what if he pushed her away? She could not fathom that anguish. Michonne would rather turn cold and unfriendly and maybe then he would understand that he was not welcome. She'd rather Tyreese think that she was a bitch than to know the truth. It was too _painful_. She will never recover from it. This depravity will forever be on her mind, sometimes all too blatant and sometimes hidden, but always present. If he learned the truth, they will never be the same and she dreaded that moment.

In those moments of nihilism, Michonne wanted nothing more than for him to comfort her, to hold her in his arms and protect her from herself. Michonne wanted to share her burdens before they toppled her and she never recovered, but she resisted. She would not burden others with her sorrows.

—All of that reached its peak.

Her dragging feet stopped. Like a moth to the flame, she stood outside his cell, feeling every nerve afire. The desperation inside her was close to the spilling point, only quelled by the sight of him.

With shaky fingers she pushed aside the drape used for privacy and entered his darkened cell. She could hear his deep breathing, sound asleep on his back. He looked so peaceful, even in this troubled times. Tyreese had the quietest slumber Michonne had ever seen. While some fussed and snored, he sat still as a statue sometimes giving the impression of a corpse and his slumber was as deep as a bear's. Michonne had always found this particular trait of his charming.

Her feet pushed her forward until she hit the edge of his bed. With no more restrain, Michonne crawled next to him, laying down on his side. While somewhere in the back of her mind, the touch repulsed her, she knew this was Tyreese who would never hurt her. This was a _good_ man.

Tyreese loved her, he was not _him_. He would never beat her. Abuse her. Humiliate her.

 _Rape_ her.

Tears pooled at her lids and spilled over her cheeks, wetting Tyreese's shirt.

As if sensing her misery, Tyreese woke like a spark. At first confusion marks his features at the body next to him, but the little light in his cell uncovered his visitor's identity.

"Michonne?" He wondered groggily, barely understanding. "What are you—"

He never got to finish as Michonne grabbed a handful of his shirt and silently sobbed. The dam broke and Michonne was too exhausted to care anymore. She just wanted to purge all her sorrows from her body.

In the darkness, Michonne could not see the sadness and futility across Tyreese's features. He too suffered knowing that there was something heavy plaguing Michonne's heart and that there was nothing he could do to help his paramour. Watching from the sidelines as she repetitively rebuked his loving arms, chose isolation and rushed headlong into auto-destructive behaviors. Knowing that she was suffering without any way of knowing how to help, as day by day passed and she progressively got worse.

But now, Tyreese let the woman cry her eyes out. Rain or shine, he will never leave the woman behind. If Michonne ever felt like the world was slipping from underneath her, he will be there to keep her upright. He will shoulder her burdens in her stead and help her through this dark forest she was traversing without direction. Even if she never revealed her demons, Tyreese will try to help her in any way possible even if it was only through a hug or a cup of coffee.

His arms wrapped around her gingerly and held her close to his chest. Only now he noticed how much he had missed the warmth of her body. She fit perfectly against him.

This he vowed, he will walk alongside her until she finally saw the light again, no matter how long it took.

* * *

Sweat dribbled down his skin. Rick's pupils were so dilated that they almost sucked in the blue of his eyes. The tension was almost palpable in the dim boiler room and the fear pungent. His nails had sunk into his palms and he could feel a faint wetness about, but it did not derail him from the voice on the other end of the phone. It sounded so familiar now as if a veil had been drawn aside for the light to shine in and it _scared_ him to the bone.

"H-How do you know me?"

His throat was dry and his voice trembled with anxious anticipation. There was a foreboding feeling blooming in his gut and he felt like retching. He almost wished the person on the other end would never answer, but the morbid curiosity would not let him hang up the phone.

"Because we know you, Rick." The woman with the twang answered. A pleasant voice, soft and gentle, but the static in the phone morphed it. "The people you were talkin' to today—that was Amy, Jim, Jacqui."

His heart clenched as the fog pressuring his brain lifted. That voice…he knew that sweet voice. How could he have not recognized it sooner?

"Lori…?" The tears pooled in his eyes. "Lori is that you?"

The static increased as the tears gushed forth.

"What happened, Rick?" She sounded so sad, mournful for his own despairing state. "Baby, what happened?"

All that anger, all that fear and loneliness, the denial and desperation broke him down. They morphed together into a ball of anguish that completely tore his heart in half. Rick bawled with nobody to hear him but his deceased wife. His body sagged to the ground, having no more will to keep himself upright. The only thing keeping him sane was clutching that phone handle until his fingers hurt and turned white.

"I loved you." He sobbed, his voice jagged. She needed to know now, before he lost her again. "I couldn't put it back together. I-I made a deal with myself. I would keep you alive. I'd find a place, and then..." He had been _afraid_. Of getting hurt once again. "I couldn't open that door. I couldn't risk it. I was gonna keep you alive. Carl, the baby and then..." By then it had been too late. Everything had crumbled to pieces around him. "I thought there'd be time. There's never time…But I _love_ you." And he always will despite everything. "I should have said it."

So many things he should have said, so many things he should have done, but Time waited for no one. Now, the only things left were memories and regrets.

"Rick, you listen to me." Lori's voice broke and wavered. "You have a baby. _Our_ baby. And Carl. And the others. I love you, Rick." The static became so loud that Rick could barely hear anymore. "You have…be there…them. Rick? …Ri…ck? …R…"

The line went dead.

With heavy limbs, the man rose to his feet and gently put the handle down, no longer needing it.

The silence that ensued was profound.


	50. You and Me

Light glinted deadly off the edge of the machete. Samara inspected her new blade with utmost devotion and precision. A faulty weapon could mean life and death in the heat of the moment.

Today's morning was no different than yesterdays. Everyone still kept to themselves and spoke only in hushed tones, and it was beginning to take a toll. Their constant state of terror was aging them faster than time itself, giving them shaky fingers and ghoulish features. Alice was by far the worst affected out of all of them. She barely ate and kept only to herself, secluded from the others. Samara had tried communicating with her but the young woman was in a state of trance that Samara had no way of breaching.

The Native kept herself busy on the stairs leading to the upper cells. That was the secret. If your mind was always buzzing with a present task then you did not have to think about the problems plaguing them…or her. Unfortunately for Samara, she had no task at hand except sharpening her machete and even that proved futile. Samara's mind was still focused on Lori and her baby and her nerves were at the ground. She swore if anyone remotely annoyed her at the moment she would bite their heads off.

It also didn't help that her traitorous eyes would at times waver over to Daryl. The man had caught her once, and Samara doubled her vigilance. She did not want him to know that he also held a part of her attention. That ever since yesterday he had been plaguing her thoughts, giving her heat waves that left her both hot and cold. She shouldn't think about him. He was the past, but then again why did her chest clench every time he came into her vision?

In her heart, she knew what she wanted, but her mind had different ideas. The rational part of her knew all the cons of such an endeavor but her feisty life-giving organ did not care.

 _Goddammit, why can't I for once stick to what I decide?_

With a flick she brought the whetstone back on the blade and lost herself in the methodical swing of stone gliding against metal. Her mind wandered to the man lost below in the darkness. Had he gotten that delusional phone call? And if yes, what did he talk to himself down there? Who had his mind conjured up on the other end? Samara wouldn't be surprised if it was Lori. The mind could do wanders, fucking you up in unexpected ways. She just hoped Rick was alright…or at least still alive.

Perhaps she should have followed Hershel's advice and descended down there and talk to him, but Samara was afraid of confronting him. Afraid that the sight of her might make things worse.

 _Goddammit…_

The stone lay forlorn in her hand as Samara's forehead dropped on her bended knee. She was so tired and sore that she almost wished she hadn't woken up this morning. The pills worked up to a point, but Samara was reluctant to use them so often since she noticed that she had been popping them like tic-tac's yesterday.

A screech of old hinges followed by a grave hush had Samara's attention back on the group. Her stomach clenched.

Rick walked almost sedated into the cell block, covered in blood and dust. He looked worse than she had expected. Like a skeleton come back to life with only some meat and skin hanging off his bones. His face was so haunted, eyes sunk and cheeks gaunt, that it made Samara wonder if he was still alive or not. Everyone seemed to share the unease as he stepped forward, straight to his son and the baby.

As if on instinct, Samara's hold on her machete tightened. A grieving man was dangerous since they could be _awfully_ unpredictable. For now, Samara did not trust Rick to be completely sane, not after that display of maddening sorrow. If he tried anything, she swore to her gods that she would launch her machete like a spear.

But the man gently stroked his son's head as he gazed down at his sister in his arms. The boy handed the infant over to his father without a prompt and Rick took her in his arms. A spark of life seemed to bleed into those blue eyes as he lightly rocked the small child.

"Hey…"

Samara sighed with ease. He was back, or at least a part of him was. What a strange sight it was, seeing him with a baby. For a while Samara had thought that the man would shun the baby, but her fears had been unwarranted. Rick carried no ill will towards the little girl. He instead managed to conjure a sad smile as he kissed her forehead, love evident in his tired gaze.

"She looks like you." He said to Carl, prompting the boy to actually scrounge up a smile.

Carl didn't look any different from his father, minus the blood and dirt. He too was emotionally exhausted as he had literally been abandoned by his only parent after his mother died. After he had to put her down. Whatever skeletons the boy carried he had not shared with the grownups. Hershel had tried to talk to him, even Carol, but the only thing they had managed was an apathetic 'I'm alright'. Beth had managed to break his shell, but whatever they had spoken was unknown to the Native.

As she watched them from her vantage point, Samara felt an incredible sense of sadness. They looked so broken as they finally stood together as a family once again, united in heartache. This was a cruel picture of a family. She almost wanted to cry at the wretchedness of this world. Stealing away mothers and fathers, siblings, friends and lovers and leaving the ones left alive to pick up the pieces with only memories to haunt forever.

Rick's gaze rose to his son.

"Where is _she_?"

"Samara buried here by the baseball field."

The urge to bolt was fierce. He was staring right at her, but there was no supposed anger or blame in his features as Samara believed there would be. There was just disillusionment.

"Will you show me?"

The Native hesitated, every bone in her body screamed no, but she complied in the end. Her flight-or-fight instinct were so heightened that she almost felt like fainting as she led the way for the mourning procession. Only the four of them stepped outside for the baseball field, the walkers rattling the chain fence at the sight of them. Rick did not seem to hear them as he had only eyes for the small creature in his arms.

Gods, she now regretted ever burying the dead. So close to the Kentucky man had her break out in a cold sweat of anxiety. She had not been prepared today to be in his presence, much less talk to the man.

As the sight of the graves grew near, Samara noticed with morbid interest a white flower on Lori's grave. A Cherokee Rose upon closer inspection. She did not remember ever leaving a flower…

"What's that?" Carl asked once he too saw the flower.

"Cherokee Rose. It's been associated with the Trail of Tears." _Didn't Daryl give one to Carol a long time ago?_ "It's said that the petals are the grief of the Cherokee mothers as they were relocated to the southeast. Many of their children and people died on the path and from their tears, the Roses bloomed."

A small smile graced the boy's lips. He seemed to like the idea.

"It's peaceful here." Rick remarked as a light breeze undulated the great sea of green. "I don't think we have one bad memory of this one place. I can still remember the baseball match. It's one of the few happy moment we had. Lori would've liked this place."

Well…Samara had picked it for practical reason, but she let Rick think what he liked.

As she watched his profile basked in the morning sunlight, Samara almost recoiled. How could someone look so at peace and grief-stricken at the same time? Was this the acceptance stage of grief? Again, the Native felt the need to run. She did not do well near people in distress. She never knew what to say or do to comfort them.

But Rick needed to know. She hadn't meant for it to happen, but she had been presented with little to no choice. It hadn't been her fault.

"I'm sorry." Samara's voice cracked at the end. "For everything turning out like this. For what had to happen." _For what Alice and I did._

Rick sighed. It came from deep within, so desolate that it sent a stab of pain in Samara's heart.

"I am too, but we can't change what happened. Lori's dead, but _our_ baby is alive. I am thankful for that at least."

Those blue eyes appraised her with an eerie emptiness.

"I don't blame you nor Alice for anythin'. I know it must've been hard. You did the only thing possible." The man swallowed thickly, pushing back the tears, and gazed back down at the baby. "I'm just glad that a part of Lori survived, and it's here, in my arms."

His lips contorted into a tired smile.

"Thank you, Samara. For bein' there for her."

 _Don't look at me like that._ He should hate her. She chose his wife's fate when she had no relation to her. Samara was barely a friend, he shouldn't be so relieved. How could she tell him that she chose based on her experience with countless deaths? Samara had known that there would have been little chances for Lori to survive if they forgo the baby. That bullet had hit too close to home for her to survive with amateurish skills and no special equipment. But the baby had a chance _only_ if the mother died.

"…I didn't want to do it, but Lori insisted. She chose death instead of seeing the baby die." Any sane parent's choice, really..

Rick nodded knowingly. "She was always protective of Carl. I don't doubt that she fought you tooth and nail for this baby's life. She was a good mother. I just wish…"

 _I know…Believe me, Rick, I know._

Despite his words, Samara still felt guilt and would for a long time. She knew herself. When something ate at her soul, Samara would fester it to the point of madness. A sort of self-inflicted punishment. The woman was masochistic in that regard.

"I should leave. I have a shift coming up." She didn't, but Samara felt that it was time to let the family to their privacy.

Rick nodded, his gaze never wavering from the child.

As Samara moved away, that urge to run became more and more prominent. Her steps quickened, but there was no direction she could take. She wanted to disappear, to stick her head in the sand and never come out. Her heart was up to the point of breaking and she needed someone or something to stitch it before it burst. The demons were coming out and Samara could not find the strength to repel them this time.

She needed to vent. She needed to rage. She needed to punch something. To retch and cry until her eyes dried up like a desert.

She needed _him_.

* * *

She found him over watching the fields from the bridge. As usual, he was frowning heavily, gripping his crossbow with white fingers as vigilance squared his shoulders. He was tense, alert for any surprise attacks.

He heard her before he saw her. At first, the man did not react save for a quick side glance. Not even when Samara crept near and russet fingers gripped the chain fence, rattling it softly. The woman said nothing as she let her beehive mind settle down. The urge to let her mouth run free was neigh, but she needed to choose her words carefully. She knew the man was on guard, so every word, every gesture counted.

"I cried for you."

That caught his attention completely.

With a deep breath, Samara opened the gates to her black heart.

"When I realized that you weren't coming back, that you were _dead_ , I couldn't hold it in anymore. I didn't think I had any tears left in me, not after John died, but they just poured out and they just wouldn't stop. I felt like dying in that moment."

His silence was a comfort, as if sailing on a calm ocean. It gave Samara the determination to go through with her confession.

"I couldn't eat, couldn't sleep. I thought I would wither away and I felt like I _deserved_ it. I was walking through a fog with no direction. It was because of me that you died. Because you got attached when you shouldn't have." The guilt she had punished herself with had been unflinching and excruciating. She had given herself no sympathy, thinking that she had not deserved it. She had brought the two of them together, had progressed matters to them screwing on a sofa and then continuing that activity throughout several weeks. Their joining had been their downfall. Nothing good ever came out of friends with benefits. Feelings always got involved, in one person or both. "But then Glenn tells me that, against my belief, you were alive and looking for _me_." It had given her so much relief that her armor chinked and the tears poured out in waves. To know that there was someone waiting for her beyond Woodbury's walls had given her the determination necessary to attempt the impossible.

Samara turned to him, her face barren. She was _tired_. So tired from the stress and anger and sorrow accumulated these past few weeks that she was dying inside bit by bit. Her insides were twisted and knotted, bleeding venom and decay. Her mind was in a constant state of frenzy, between fury and no means of venting it. Between needing compassion and keeping a strong front. She wanted no help from others but for how long can the human psyche sustain that mentality before it breaks?

The only person that could have comforted her, she pushed away to prevent further grief, but what has that accomplished except for additional dismay? As much as she tried to deny it even Samara needed a consoling touch. Someone to be there for her through thick and thin.

"You want to know why I couldn't let you touch me after? Why I couldn't even look at you?"

Daryl stood patiently as she approached him slowly, her heart bleeding through her eyes. Her fingers reached for his neck and touched the hideous mark that will forever be tattooed upon his skin. The only proof that Death had almost claimed him as one of her own soldiers.

"You bastard…"

She slapped him. Hard.

"You stupid son of a bitch."

She slapped him again and the man offered no retaliation as he calmly accepted her blows. The anger was eating her raw. Those repressed emotions were gushing forth with furious speed as she lashed out blindly. She wanted to hurt someone, make them pay for what was done to her and her friends. For having to spend a month in hell and to know that the future only held death and destruction. There was no peace to be found, only fire.

 _Why did everything turn out like this?_

"That's what you are! Stupid! You're an idiot!"

She continued to hit him and she _loathed_ him for just standing there. Why did he not do anything? Curse her. Yell. Hit her. Anything!

 _Do something!_

"Asshole! Fucking hick!"

With each strike of his flesh, Samara felt everything unravel inside her. The pieces were cracking once more and she had no strength to keep together. She did not even care for the pain the strikes left in her damaged hand, she welcomed them as the last piece of stable ground in this hellish storm she was riding.

"Why did you offer yourself?! Why did you have to play the hero?! I didn't need you to do that, you asshole! I just wanted you to stay alive! You should have let me _die_!"

He moved. Daryl embraced her in a tight hug, leaving her no room to move. In vain, Samara tried to struggle, but he was unrelenting. That fear of being trapped—especially now since not recently she had been tied down to a chair, her pinky hacked off—escalated into hysterics and almost had her collapse mentally.

 _Let me go!_

She struggled and yelled into his collarbone, tried to beat at him, but nothing she did moved the man. He remained fixed, holding her tightly against him.

 _Don'ttouchmegetofffuckyoubastardpleasehelpme—_

It felt like hours until Samara finally ceased out of pure exhaustion. She just lay lifelessly while Daryl offered nothing but his warmth. The Native hadn't even noticed the bitter tears that soaked his shirt.

"You just hung there…struggling." Her voice was hoarse and muffled, broken in so many pieces that she feared she would never recover. "I could see your skin turn blue…your veins bulging. I saw _life_ leave your body. Why did you do it?"

His arms loosened as strong fingers cupped her face with a gentleness uncharacteristic of him. She had never seen him so distraught, his face contorted into such painful sorrow. His heart too was bleeding.

"Can't you tell?" The coarseness in his voice had Samara in tears again. "Don't you see why I couldn't let you die? Look at _me_."

His forehead touched hers. So up close, Samara found that his eyes were actually _beautiful_ to gaze upon. Such a pleasant shade of blue that it ignited a spark of soothing comfort. How come she hadn't noticed this before?

She knew, without a doubt, what lurked behind those handsome eyes. What emotion churned deep within this man. Samara had known for a while now, but had simply refused to acknowledge it.

"No…"

She tried in vain to look away, to turn her head from this intense man but he would not allow it.

"It's been there at the back of my mind. It was just a matter of time." His thumbs wiped the tear traces, his rough pads making her skin flush. "I didn't wanna admit it because I knew I'd end up the fool, but it don't matter no more. The fights, the arguments, those shoutin' matches that you could hear from miles away only for us to end up back in the warden's office, fuckin' our brains out. And after all that thunder and lightnin', for it to start all over again like a clean slate. All that shit don't matter no more. There's only you and me now."

Her mind was revolting. The logical side of her being was screaming for her to run from this man. That he will be her downfall, but her heart wouldn't allow her. It kept her chained to him, to comfort and the opportunity of happiness. She wished she could stay forever like this, but nothing ever worked the way she wanted.

"And _this_."

He kissed her and Samara lost herself to the moment. It was not fiery passionate as their past sessions, but tender and soft. Barely any pressure as their lips brushed against each other.

"It wasn't supposed to be like this." Samara whispered, their breaths mingling.

"I know. It ain't your fault, it's mine. It was never just a quick one in a dark room for me. Never was. It just took me a long time."

He cupped her face again and kissed her. This time, it was more than just a brush as Daryl almost devoured her lips. The Native was left stunned, but his eagerness was not unwelcome. She could feel the repressed want behind his actions. The days she had denied him this very action and it was now seeping into her being, sending shivers down her spine. He did not relent, he did not allow her space. The hunter latched onto her like a predator its prey, her life trapped between his jaws, and the man did not show any signs of conceding soon.

Not that Samara minded. This was why she had come here in the first place. A break from this harsh reality was always welcome in desperate times. But the moment Daryl lost himself into the dance of their lips and his arm circled her entire back and squeezed, was when her injuries reminded her that she was not exactly fit for any rough and tumble activities.

"Ow! Fuck!" Like lightning, the nerves in her dislocated arm went aflame. Tiny colorful splotches dominated her vision and sent her mind reeling.

"Shit!" Daryl backed away in horror. "I hurt you."

She caught his wrist with her four-fingered hand (goddammit, she will never get used to thinking that) and stopped him from further breaking the spell.

"It's fine!" She squeaked rapidly, her fingers tightening even though she felt like screaming. Her body had still not recuperated from the madness of two days ago. "It's fine. I'm _alright_."

Every pore of his body seem to doubt her words, as he assessed her from head to toe, taking in every wince, twitch of her muscles and awkward angle of her body. Nothing escaped his notice as his frown deepened worriedly.

"I'm fine, Daryl." She gingerly settled her bandaged hand on his chest, capturing his attention towards it. "Really."

The small smile on her lips seemed to have conquered his doubts as he took her injured hand and kissed it affectionately. Samara wished she could have felt his rough lips on her skin but unfortunately the bandage was too thick.

Her four fingers wrapped around his hand and tugged. Like a puppy, he came after her no question asked, his crossbow held loosely in his other hand. His mind was in another dimension. Any thoughts he might have had about watch duty or their group troubles seemed to have vanished as his blue eyes darkened with lust. His eyes raked over her heavily and Samara knew he was already picturing her naked and doing unspeakable things to her body.

 _That's right. Come with me._

Inside the garage, the darkness was almost consuming, but Samara found it a relief. There was no fear or coldness here, only the warmth of Daryl's body and his excited breath mingling with hers. He was just as eager as she was, maybe even more.

Like a lioness, she pounced on him, hoping he could make her forget even for a little while.

That was all she wanted.

* * *

She was _beautiful_.

There, as she sat on top of him, disheveled from their kissing, her lips prettily swollen, her chest rising and falling with sweet urgency and her olive eyes dark with want. She wanted him, _badly_.

Daryl did not know how long it passed since they ended up on the floor, half their clothes gone, kissing and biting and sucking on their skin like two desperate animals in heat and for the life of him he did not care. She was back, in his arms, no longer pushing him away like a leper. The urge in him to fuck her until her skin turned blue and black, until she walked bowlegged and begged him for more was on the edge of his sane consciousness, barely within his self-control. It had been too long. So much energy had been accumulated within him that he had not been able to vent it in any way possible. Too many things have happened—from his return to the living, to her disappearance and presumed death; her reappearance in tow with his brother along with a slew of other problems, the most dangerous they have faced yet.

Goddammit, ever since he saw her come out of that car, the only thing he had wanted to do was hold her. Comfort her. Kiss her. But she had denied him that pleasure for whatever reason her twisted mind conjured up. He had never wished her ill will so Daryl did not understand why she was fighting so zealously against the tide. He had accepted it some time ago.

He _loved_ her.

Every part of her. To her smooth and silky raven hair that shined almost indigo in the bright morning light, to her olive eyes speckled with golden flakes that he had tried on several occasions to count but never managed to finish, to her foul temper and cynical remarks to her almost gentle smile when she was in a content mood. And that dimple on her cheek…the one he discovered in the forest, he had not been able to not see it since. It added to her charm and he knew that if she smiled fully, the dimple would show plain as day.

No matter what happened, no matter what he or she did, Daryl knew that a part of him will always hold her dear to his heart. She was the _first_ he'd ever grown so fond of. The reason why he had denied himself this chance, why he had tried to keep her at a distance and pathetically failed. The emotions that came with Samara had been foreign to him. Aliens that have landed on his planet and Daryl had been lost in translation. He had been too ashamed to ask for advice—a grown ass man searching for counsel in the matters of the heart was pitiful and far too revealing of his former life than he wished. He had been reduced to sorting this tangled and thorny path on his own and hope he would come to see the end of it in one piece.

And he did…And now he knew what he wanted and he would do _anything_ to keep it. Life was short. Shorter now than ever so why deny himself this pleasure? If this is what he felt, he might as well ride its turbulent and fervent tides until one of them closed their eyes forever.

Daryl's fingers tangled in her hair and pulled the Native back to him, their lips tangling and tongues battling for dominance. She was so hot inside, her tongue making perverse wet noises and little moans escaped from deep within her throat that it took all his willpower not to flip her over and take command. He knew what she wanted—rough, desperate, painful, angry, maybe even hateful—and Samara knew how to elicit that from him, but Daryl would not give her that. Not this time. He would not give her the quick and rough fuck she wanted so desperately. She came to him so he was the one setting the pace whether she liked it or not.

Daryl was not blind. Something must have happened to heavily unbalance her and she sought refuge in the only way possible she knew how to take control—riding him with abandon. But he will not oblige. He needed to show her that it could be better. She did not need a justifiable reason to come to him.

Slowing down her pace, Daryl's hand slipped from her hair to her cheek and held her to him while their lips danced with slow precision. He could feel the exasperation behind her short-lived spurts of energy, but she would just have to practice patience. They had time, there was no need to rush.

Catching her lower lip between his teeth, he naughtily nibbled on it eliciting a breathy sigh from his _Sacajawea_. Samara responded with her own tongue, licking at his lips erotically before catching and sucking it into her mouth. The free hand that had been on her hip, roughly kneaded her flesh and made her skin pinprick as she violated his mouth with her wickedness. Slowly, his hand lowered until it reached her curved backside and _squeezed_.

Samara gasped into his mouth and her eyes almost rolled into her skull when his hand brushed between her thighs. Daryl could feel the heat emanating from her core and almost groaned himself. It became worse when Samara suddenly bucked, grinding without any shame against his hardness.

Daryl hissed as his back arched. The woman was undulating atop him like a mesmerized cobra, building fires of unstoppable ecstasy inside his being. She wasn't even being fair. Samara had picked an unhurried and tortuous tempo, teasing him with the entire feel of her heated sex.

She was playing dirty and she knew it from that smug grin on her lips.

Well…two could play that.

With one push, he raised his upper body along with hers. With one hand he applied pressure on her chest until she was bent enough that he had free access to her breasts. Samara almost howled when he tugged on her sports bra, freeing one breast and latched onto her nipple, sucking the hard bud with unrestraint. The woman lost all notion of her previous action, sitting complacently in his lap as he devoured her breasts with rough kisses.

Samara didn't have large breasts—a feat he preferred in his women—but they were satisfying and quite perky for her age. The Native had little fat to her body, all toned and solid limbs. A far cry from the woman in the photo. Daryl had found her off-putting at first, but with time he grew to adore her body, no longer minding her hard angles. What he probably adored the most were her _thighs_ —they were lean and strong as a horse's and could squeeze him to hell and back. And the way she sometimes clenched and moved her pelvis when he was inside her…it was all he could take not to finish prematurely.

Slender fingers tangled in his hair and aggressively tugged for attention. Reluctantly, he let go of her now tender and flushed breasts only for Samara's free hand to dive to his pants and undo his zipper. Forgetting his previous proclamation of taking things slow, Daryl hastily helped her in relieving himself out of his pants and helped her in the process as well, all but ripping what clothing she still had left.

Instead of settling back in his lap as he thought she would, Samara smirked naughtily and shimmied down his body, leaving a trail of kisses and rough nibbles. Daryl almost groaned out loud when her tongue licked the faint v shape of his lower abdomen. He was no Ares, but he always believed his body was in good shape for his age and Samara seemed to be of the same mind as she all but worshiped his abdomen, lavishing it with her hot tongue. Teeth scrapping against sensitive skin had him strain against his skintight boxers, driving him mad with lust. She was teasing him again and he _loved_ every moment of it.

The woman had a playful side to her when it came to the bedroom. He'd noticed it before, but back then she had tried to suppress it in favor of reaching her own high as fast as possible. Not today it seemed. She was intent on driving him over the brink for her own lascivious amusement.

He cursed lowly and shut his eyes tight when her warm mouth ghosted over his covered length, her tongue sneaking out for a few impish licks. Strong fingers tangled in her hair urging her to relieve him from his confines lest he lose all of his sanity. The Native complied with sharp nails and scraping teeth.

But once he was finally out of his last restrictions, free to slip into a world of sexual bliss, the woman's touch disappeared. Alarmed and heavily dismayed, he opened his eyes and searched for the cause of her cold-shoulder.

Samara was naked as the day she was born, settled with her bended knees on each side of his lap, moments away from nestling comfortably with him inside her. Those willowy fingers that could bring so much harm and so much pleasure wrapped around his length and guided him towards her entrance—

 _Goddamn, she's so wet…_

It never ceased to amaze him that for someone with her experience she was still so mouthwateringly _tight_. Like trying on a glove a size too small, but Daryl loved it all the same. The two of them might not have the greatest emotional chemistry, but they had a deep sexual one that made up for that.

Once she settled all the way to his base, they both groaned with barely suppressed energy. The thin line between love-making and fucking was so thin that it became transparent, but Daryl was intent on savoring it and that meant taking it slow and not like two beasts rutting in a frenzy.

Those powerful legs tangled behind his back, squeezing his hips and in reaction, her muscles contracted with him inside. Daryl growled as he clenched his eyes shut to relish the waves of pleasure crashing over him. She just knew how to push his buttons…

His fingers dug deep into her rump, eliciting a throaty chuckle from her. Watching him struggle and squirm was a pastime to the woman atop him.

But he knew how to shut her up. A quick and rough buck upwards was all it took to wipe the haughtiness of her face and make her a quivering mess. Daryl gripped her hips and ass as he bucked fiercely inside her, leaving her no respite. Samara held onto him frighteningly tight, the last bastion to her sanity, as the man devoured her completely. The woman had to bite down on her dislocated arm to muffle the shouts that wanted to escape her so desperately.

There was no mercy to the hunter, but he knew he could not do it for long. He had a promise to keep. To his slight frustration, he slowed down his pace until he could feel every slide of his manhood against her walls and he swore the intensity of their coupling spiked through the roof. Samara let out a desperate moan, her nails digging into his back, urging him to pick up his pace. This was torture. _Exquisite_ , beautiful torture and Daryl never wanted it to end.

This was the first time he ever took his time with the woman. Their joining had always been fast and harsh, each desperate to reach their own release, never once taking in the time to enjoy. And he could understand why now. It was infinitely _better_ and considerably more torturous. Every sway of their hips was felt tenfold, every friction of skin left them hot and cool to the touch, Daryl could explore her flesh leisurely and Samara _loved_ it all. She was panting and moaning and shivering, each stroke of his length seemingly making her more painfully wanton.

 _She feels so good…_

Inside everything was scorching hot that Daryl thought he would develop a fever. His mind was in a haze, his body acting on basic urges. He never wanted to let go, holding her against him almost wishing they could merge into one being and forever live in this passionate sensation.

His lips found hers and they kissed until their breath left their bodies, leaving them panting for air. Daryl did not give her much free time before he dove right back in and stole her breath away. Her skin was soft under his touch, her spine quaking as his fingers brushed over it feathery light. His fingers moved to her breast and kneaded it lovingly with just enough amount of roughness to make her mewl.

Samara's hands traveled to his chest, her nails leaving pink marks across his skin. The feeling had Daryl buck harder than intended. She knew it was a weak point and she was devilish enough to exploit it. Like a cat she flexed her fingers over his chest, altering between leaving indents and lightly brushing against. It was driving him crazy.

With enough pressure, he pushed the woman into his chest trapping her arms between them with enough force not to hurt her already disturbed arms. He would not handle her the power in this little dance of theirs. The moment he began filling her more deeply, Samara slumped against him without any willpower to move. She was completely in his control; a puppet dangling on his strings. Her walls were so slick and soft against his member, Daryl swore he could only compare it to satin. She accepted him wholeheartedly inside, her body already knowing him.

It could only be him and no one else. Who else could manipulate her body to such heights? Could give her what she wanted without any words exchanged? He knew her body, the slight twitches in her muscles, the subtle changes in her mood. Daryl could tell only by looking at her how she wanted it. And deny it as she might, Daryl knew she enjoyed his passion more than she would like to admit.

In and out of her he slid, his entire being on fire. The world had stopped and it was only the two of them, locked in each other's burning embrace. Daryl could feel it deep inside—the delightful churning—ready to reach the end of its fuse and send him to Nirvana. The hunter knew it would be like fireworks being set off. He had been away from her touch for too long and it had affected him more than he thought.

He knew she didn't have long left either. From the heightened pitch in her voice to the way her inner walls were contracting against him and to her quivering thighs, he knew she was close to reaching her peak. Daryl wanted to see her come for him. He loved that moment—seeing her face wreaked with pleasure, pleasure he brought upon her. It was a personal high.

Gripping her hips tightly, he began bucking into her fiercely. Samara responded the way he knew she would and matched his pace, her head thrown backwards and moaning loud enough to wake the dead. The sway of their bodies, the sweat rolling down their damp skin, their trembling limbs made for one picturesque image. The air was electrifying and the heady smell intoxicated their minds, throwing them into pure, erotic bliss.

Her walls clenched and quivered. Daryl embraced her, one arm around her back the other pushing her rump into him and the final cherry—he bit her neck with enough roughness to make her scream.

And how did Samara howl.

The feeling of her climax against him sent him over the edge as well, joining her in this ecstasy. Daryl thought there was no greater feeling in the world than two people finishing at the same time, especially when those involved shared a bond beside that in body. There was a sort of magic to it that could never be replicated with a different person. It was unique and Daryl couldn't get enough of it.

This woman quivering in his arms…he _loved_ her like no other woman in his life. She was his salvation and his curse. A woman doomed to forever slip through his hands, never once remaining trapped for too long. She was not what he wanted in a partner, but she was what he needed.

Daryl wanted to never let go. He could sense it. It was faint and barely noticeable, but the first rumble of a distant storm jolted through his being bringing him to a sharp awareness. Something told him that she would fly away again and leave him alone as he had been all his life. Usually, his instincts were never wrong but he hoped to God that this prediction wasn't about to come true.

Such a bitter-sweet feeling to his climax that it made him hold onto her for dear life.

 _Stay. For once in your life, stay._

 _Here. With me._

His heart clenched in pain.

 _Don't let go…_

* * *

Samara sat nestled in his lap, her back resting on his chest. She was as content as a lazy cat basking in the sun. Her needs had been met and the frenzy in her mind seemed to have dissipated to a background noise. She knew the problems wouldn't go away with just one roll in the hay, but dammit if it didn't calm her down greatly.

She softly caressed the arm lying on her stomach and Daryl seemed to approve of her affection as he nuzzled and kissed her neck. His other hand held her damaged one with tenderness, stroking the bandage gingerly. The Native could sense his contentment on her skin. The man was happy to have her in his arms and she knew that his fondness far outshined hers. For such a quiet and reserved man, he was by far the more affectionate of the two of them.

In her own way, Samara did care for him. More than she thought possible, more than she should have. The Native was so _afraid_ and yet, she wanted him to stay beside her. To never leaver but she knew that was a fantasy. An ideal she could not follow through…at least not now.

—He really did deserve someone better.

"What happens now?"

Daryl shifted, the hand on her stomach applying more pressure. His nose burrowed in the conjecture of her shoulder and breathed in deeply.

"Don't know." She heard his muffled husky voice. "You wanna talk? About this?"

Samara almost chuckled. "I think we have more pressing matters at hand than our standing in this fucked up world."

He nodded into her, understandingly. His hand detached from her stomach and cupped her chin, turning her head to the side so she could see him. He was dead serious.

"But once this whole Woodbury problem is over, me and you—if we're still alive—we're gonna have a _talk_. We can't keep doin' what we've been doin'. It ain't right. I just don't have the strength to continue this fucked up game."

 _A game_ …Was that what it was? Was Samara playing with him? At this point, even she had no idea. But she conceded, knowing that he spoke true. Worse was the fact that she already knew what her words would be.

"I think that would be for the best. But until then…can I stay with you for just a little while longer?"

The corner of his mouth upturned for a moment before he kissed her fondly. His hand left her chin and slid downwards amorously. Samara felt her nipples tighten as those coarse fingers passed over her breast, giving them a light squeeze before venturing further. The Native whimpered into his kiss when those _magnificent_ fingers of his reached her sex and stroked—

"We got an intruder!"

The voice crackled through Daryl's walkie like a war horn. As if electrocuted, they disentangled and reached for their clothes, dressing in a hurry. Samara almost balked, but there was nothing to be done. The times were still dangerous and the situation could not be ignored no matter how much she craved his warmth.

She just wished it didn't have to be _now_ of all times…

* * *

Samara hurried in the courtyard along with Daryl, rifles ready. Anger ran rampant through her body. She refused to believe that Woodbury was already attacking. They were not ready for violence yet, not after the last attack. Rick might look calm now, but she bet underneath he was still disturbed. The others had not gotten rid of the paranoia and fear. They were now the metaphorical cornered animal, clawing and hissing at anyone that came within short distance.

The two trackers joined Merle and Dale who were behind cover in the cage. Merle gave the two of them a scrutinizing once over and scoffed derisively. Guess someone realized what they had been up two…

It wasn't like they didn't look the part. Disheveled clothing, mussed hair, swollen lips, flushed skin and the scent of sex. She just hoped Dale didn't recognize it. That would become rather awkward.

Further away she could see the others in different areas, hiding behind corners and cars, on the bridge behind pallets and Glenn even held a riot shield protectively. Everyone was on edge and with good reason. The unknown was upon to reign on them once again.

"What is goin' on? Is Woodbury attackin' again?" Daryl hissed to his brother, worry evident.

Merle shook his head. "One guy. He's walkin' through the field with a biter on a leash and get this…geek's got no arms."

Samara's brows raised in surprise. What the hell was going on?

The walkie at Dale's belt crackled and Sasha's voice whispered.

"He's near the inner gate. The walkers are getting agitated. I think they're starting to realize something's wrong."

Samara peaked through the metal gaps in the walls of the cage. Indeed, there was a man with a collared walker approaching the gate. The man seemed to be covered in home-made armor and it was a wonder he could even move in it from all that silvery tape.

"Who is that?" Dale asked as he watched the strange man with astounded, but curious eyes. Anyone willing to walk around like that must be a little bit crazy.

"That there is Milton." Merle huffed in amusement, a sly grin creeping over his lips.

And indeed, it was him. Milton _fucking_ Mamet rolled up in tape and foam and other junk protecting his body, guiding around a walker on a dog catcher pole.

"Milton…Is that the scientist you told us about?" Dale looked to Samara.

She nodded.

"He ain't no threat." Merle spat as he watched the little man awkwardly avoid the inquisitive undead, probably pissing himself in fear. "You so much as glare in his direction and he breaks down like a little girl."

"That don't mean he's alone." Daryl interjected as he left the cage and ran to a different cover, much closer to the foreign man. His crossbow was loaded. One wrong step and he'll shoot to kill.

"So…" Merle stated vulgarly, ignorant of the tense situation or even that the old man was there. "You and my bro did the dirty, huh?"

The surprised/shocked look she got from Dale had been among the most awkward moments of her life. _Can't this bastard ever shut up?_

Thankfully, the situation at hand saved her from Merle's further obscene prodding as Milton frantically fluttered a white handkerchief.

"I come in peace!"

Samara kept her amusement in check at his choice of words, but Merle didn't. Milton had never been the most social of people. Figures he wouldn't know what to say.

"Are you alone?!" Samara heard Rick's voice bellow.

"Yes! Please, open the gate! The biters are coming closer!"

Rick weighted his choices and made a signal forward. Tyreese, Glenn and Michonne provided the distraction while Daryl covered their leader. The others warily watched the horizon for any other living creatures willing to shower them again with a hail of bullets. The gate opened with a screech and Rick grabbed Milton, hurling him inside. The leashed walker was left behind to wander absentmindedly, poles till attached.

Milton almost tripped, his glasses askew on his nose. The man did not even get the chance to breathe as both Daryl and Rick ambushed, weapons fixed on him.

"Hands up! Get on your knees!"

Without mercy, Rick forced Milton down and patted him for any concealed weapons while Daryl held him at gunpoint.

"I asked if you were alone." Rick said as he gathered the supplies and few weapons he had on. He was not pleased, Samara could read it on his rigid features. Every pore in his body exuded poison enough to kill someone and who better than one of the very people that killed his wife.

"I am!" Milton was out of breath and his glasses askew. She knew the man was just coming down from his adrenaline adventure among walkers only to fall into a pit of hatred. Samara could see them all…how they looked at Milton. There was anger, disgust, fear…The smell of hate was heavy in the air.

Rick took another watchful look over the field before picking Milton up and along with Tyreese, dragged him inside the prison. As they passed Samara, Milton looked to her. There was fear in those pale orbs of his, but there was also resolution. A determination that forced him to brave the open country with only a walker on a leash.

Samara smirked, but the sentiment never reached her eyes.

"Welcome to my house, Milton."

* * *

Milton was forcefully shoved into a metal chair, the jolt sending his glasses tumbling on the cold ground. Samara picked them up, vaguely noticing the tiny cracks in the glass.

 _I don't remember these from back in Woodbury. Must be recent._

"What are you doing here, Milton?" She handed him his spectacles.

"I came to bargain a truce."

Samara didn't even need to turn around and look at the faces around her to know their doubt. She herself did not believe it. Truce and the Governor did not go hand in hand.

"Truce, my ass." Merle spat, his features contorted nastily. "Is this some new play? Send in the sheep to ease us into the slaughter, huh?"

"No! He was the one that wanted to meet. He wants to negotiate."

No, more like Milton wanted to negotiate and the Governor let him do whatever he wanted. The bastard had just opened fire upon them a few days ago, leaving casualties behind. It seemed a mighty strange prelude for a peace treaty.

"There's nothin' to negotiate!" Rick yelled, cornering Milton in his chair. "We had that field and courtyard until your leader tore down the fence with a truck and shot us up!"

"He-He said you fired first…"

"Well, he's lying." The sheriff was beyond furious. Milton's proposition must seem like a slap in the face after everything that happened. Samara wouldn't be surprised if the sheriff took a swing at him. "He killed an inmate who survived in here and _my_ _wife_!"

Milton looked aghast, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly. It seemed the Governor had not been inclined to divulge everything that transpired here.

"I-I didn't know anything about that." He spoke meekly, fearing the danger he was currently in. The man pacing agitated in front of him looked seconds away from tearing him in half. "As soon as I heard, I pleaded with the Governor to seek out a truce. I barely convinced him of this. _Please_ , hear me out."

"No!" Rick refused adamantly. The mere thought of sitting face to face with that bastard had his fists tremble in anger. "We're gonna kill him. I don't know how or when, but we will."

"We can settle this." Milton insisted unwavering. "There is room in Georgia for all of us."

"You know better than that, Milton." Merle interjected, a mocking smile on his lips. "He won't stand for havin' neighbors in his back yard. Dangerous ones, too."

"Please, listen. He doesn't want more bloodshed. We've already lost enough. But the Governor _will_ protect his town. He's gearing up for war. The people are terrified. They see you as killers. They're training to defend."

"You mean, attack." Sasha scoffed, her arms crossed. She was in the' no truce' camp, it seemed.

"I'll tell you what." Daryl grabbed the back of Milton's chair and lowered enough to be terrified eye to vicious eye. "Next time you see the Governor, you tell him it's gonna be his last."

"We're taken too much shit for too long." Glenn's eyes narrowed forebodingly. "He wants a war? He's got one."

Around and around Milton searched for a sympathetic face. Someone who would listen to sanity and logic but all he could see was a sea of anger and grief, ready to unleash a tidal of violence on the man he followed. Samara almost felt sorry for him…that if until he turned to her with those puppy dog eyes.

"Samara, please! If you don't sit down and try to work this out, I don't know what's gonna happen. We has a whole town. Look at you! You've lost so much already. You can't stand alone anymore."

Samara's bandaged arm flexed. She knew what she lost. Was reminded of it every day, from the instant she woke to the moment she closed her eyes.

"We lost more than you can think. Some of us more than the others. You want me to believe the Governor wants truce? Peace?" With features set in stone she took off her bandage and shoved in his face him what remained of her little finger—crusted blood, raw meat and all. "This is the Governor's mercy!"

Milton closed his eyes in faint nausea, but she could see the pain in his pale eyes. "I know…I know what he did." His eyes stole a furtive glance at Michonne. _So he knows about that too…_ "Look, I cannot excuse or explain what Philip has done. Even I can't understand, but I am here trying to bring us together. We _have_ to work this out."

"There's nothing to work out!" Michonne exploded, startling everyone within her range. Samara could safely say that she could count on one hand the times she heard Michonne raise her voice and this was one of them. The woman was holding herself back with what little was left of her willpower, Samara could see it, but she too was close to her breaking point. Andrea had noticed the perilous signs as she cautiously made her way towards the sword-wielder. Just in case… "You want to make this right, get us inside and we'll end this once and for all. You know just as I do that that man is too dangerous to live. You must have seen the walker heads."

Milton shook his head, either to be rid of the image she conjured or to express his denial. Samara thought both.

"I can't do that." His voice was cracked, the words regurgitated forcefully.

"Then we got nothin' to talk about." Rick's voice was stone cold and his gaze spoke volumes of the hell within him. "Tell your Governor the answer is _no_."

How sour desperation smelled, Samara thought. Milton had the same feel as a drowning man. Salvation was near yet so far away and there was nothing one could do but scream at their bleak situation. Samara knew that feeling all too well.

Milton rose to his feet forgetting all about his captivity level. His abrupt action almost got him stabbed or shot as most of them reached for their guns, crossbows and machetes. But lost in his misery, Milton was beyond prudence and acted on his heart.

"There are innocent people! Women and children! We wants to arm thirteen year olds! Old people that can barely carry a gun! Is that what you want to fight? Is that what you want to kill?" He faced them all in turn, hoping to instill a slither of empathy. "Samara, I know what he did was _beyond_ wrong, but you can't want this. This senseless slaughter! Both sides will lose if we go to war. There's no winning! You have to see that!"

 _Oh, he really didn't think this one._

"You're pleading with the wrong person, Milton. I want to see Woodbury _burn_ , and all its people."

In another time Samara would have felt great pity for the man. His slumped shoulders, the loss of hope in his features, but the Samara of now was full of hatred and anger and suppressed violence. The Native knew what she wanted both in body and mind and Woodbury destroyed was high on her 'to do' list.

"I can't believe that this is what we have come too." Milton sat back in his chair, mentally exhausted. Even his voice barely carried any motivation. "Killing each other for no different reason because we couldn't put aside our pride and _talk_. We're better than this. We're still human, right? I'm sorry that your wife died. And you friend. But _you_ killed some of our own people too. Friends, family. I'm not asking you to decide now if you'll go to war or not, but at least listen. No harm will come to both parties. Perhaps, we could find a motive, even as obscure as you think it to be, to live peacefully and without further, needless deaths. Isn't that worth trying?"

Rick gave him no answer, but Samara could see the cogs turn inside his head.

* * *

 _Oh hell…_

"You can't be considering it." Tyreese watched Rick like a hawk, anxious revulsion contorting his features. "It's insane!"

"I am."

The strongest of the group were gathered, far away from Milton's ears, discussing his proposal with bathed breath while the rest remained with their captive, watchful of his actions. Heavy tension hung in the air, creating an uncomfortable current. Samara could see the ones for and against the idea and the Native could loudly proclaim that she thought the notion to be a _very_ bad one.

"We can't have a truce, not after—"

"I never said anythin' about a truce." Rick placated the furious Michonne. The woman looked ready to gouge his eyes out. "I don't believe the Governor wants that, no matter what this Milton says. That man is up to somethin', and I want to _know_. If he wants to face me, I won't turn tail and run."

"What if it's a trap?" Daryl asked, he too doubtful with Milton's 'peaceful' solution. "Get us there only to have us captured and used as bargain."

"He ain't like that." Merle huffed from his darkened corner. "Governor wants us dead, he'll do it while the whole of Woodbury watches. That way his lies has legs to stand on. I'm with the Officer Friendly on this one. Governor wants to size us up. We back down, he'll know we're scared."

 _Like cornered prey._

They couldn't have that.

"I'll go." Samara never doubted that Rick would ever sit the bench this round. Not when he had the opportunity to come face to face with the man that caused his wife's death. Samara just hoped he wouldn't do something stupid and get himself and the others killed. "Daryl I want you there as well. Hershel, too. Everyone else, stay put. Do _not_ come after us."

Michonne stalked away in disgust, her snarl a loud echo against the bleak walls. Samara understood her hatred completely. She too did not like Rick's compliance with Milton's request, for reasons obvious.

"This is stupid." Samara stepped in front, ready to burst their little bubble. "You're going into the shark's territory now of all times while blood is still fresh on the ground. You only came out of your insanity a few hours ago and now you want to go have a friendly chat with the _man_ that caused all that blood?" The woman scoffed unconvinced. "I'm not really sure that's a good idea, Rick."

It didn't escape Samara's notice the shadow of pain that crossed over his features and while she might feel sorry for attacking him in such a manner, her words rang true. She would not risk others' lives on some insane suicide mission.

"I know what it looks like, but I can't back down." Rick's voice was low but firm as steel. He hid the pain well, but talking from experience, Samara knew that inside he was screaming, crying, _dying_. "My wife is dead because of that man, but I can't think about that now. This is about all of us. I _need_ to look him in the eye and I want to see what's in there. Then I'll know what his true intentions are. _I'm_ the leader of this group. I have to know what's in store for us."

Pretty words, but will those ideals persevere once he came face to face with the devil? It only took an impulse, a stray thought, and a second of weakness for the situation to unravel. In her law enforcement career, she'd witnessed too many.

"You sure you're up to this?" Tyreese asked, his doubts still dancing atop his shoulders.

"I don't have a choice."

Samara's teeth clenched. The rumble of the storm was creeping closer.

* * *

Her steps were silent. A memory floating across the empty, darkened hallways of the prison.

Sleep had not come to her tonight. Her limbs were sore and her back ached with phantom pain. Thoughts of today's happenings had been revolving inside her mind without respite, reducing her to pace across the prison's floors lost in thought.

It was insanity. Speaking with that bastard would welcome no result other than more violence. The Governor was not a man to back down and live quietly. He craved blood and death. Samara knew ever since she saw the fighting arena in Woodbury. It had been more for him than the residents. To feed his ego and lust for gore. Like Merle had said, the man was looking to size the sheriff up. The see the sort of damage he had inflicted and the length it spread. If Rick showed even a smidgen of weakness, a sign that the man had disturbed him to his very core, they would lose considerable ground in this war.

Samara just hoped that Rick would keep his head screwed on right for at least the duration of the 'peace talk'.

The arrows on her watch indicated past four in the morning. Just a few more hours and the arranged meeting would commence. Milton had come prepared with a time and place and himself as the hostage. A show that his side came peacefully and that nothing afoul would desecrate this summit. Everyone remaining calm and cool was his goal, no trigger fingers about.

—Samara thought otherwise. Governor was most likely to shoot him dead along with the rest if it meant gaining the advantage.

Her steps stilled.

She could see nothing but darkness inside. Milton had been locked into the adjunct area, both the gates to his cell and the block shut tight. Rick had taken no chances and separated the man from his pack. He would have posted a guard as well but Samara had discouraged him—Milton was neither dangerous nor treacherous. He was too straight of a man to lie, steal or kill.

"Milton?"

A rustle of sheets.

"I'm awake."

The man's pale face appeared before her, a wraith trapped behind rusting, iron bars. Even in the dim light Samara could see the anxieties wreak his body and temper. Like her, the man was nervous for what the morning sun would bring. He too knew the odds—it could easily go sideways, ending their peace talks in a mortal brawl.

How the tables have turned, Samara mused with dark humor. No longer was she the one held in captivity, awaiting tomorrow's light with heavy foreboding. Instead, she was the one looking _inside_ the cells, holding the key to freedom. The only difference was, the man in the cell was not the one she wanted under her complete tyranny.

"Do you really believe that the Governor wants peace?" Her words hung thick in the air, painting a sense of dread. "Really?"

"I _have_ to believe."

Samara scoffed. _I have to…_

In other words, he had no other choice but to resume to the power of trusting that everything will go well in the end. Pathetic…The ridiculous ramblings of a desperate man.

"You're taking a dangerous gamble. Not just on our lives, but yours as well."

"I know…" His forehead collided softly with the iron bar as if the burden on his mind was too heavy to bear alone anymore. "If it means my life then so be it, but the violence has to _stop_. No more bloodshed, no more needless deaths. I can't have those people that I've grown to care about march into a battle that could have been easily resolved without the use of force."

 _Easily, huh?_

"Milton…Even if Rick talks to that monster there will be no peace." _Can't he see that? It's so obvious_. "We're still going to be at each other's throats. Maybe if events hadn't turned out the way they did, maybe a solution could have been found…but even then I doubt."

Milton frowned in dismay, her words further burdening his muddled mind. He could feel the beginnings of an aggressive migraine brewing deep within.

"There is a way, though…" His eyes shone back to her but he flinched. There was an evil about the woman that set him on edge. "You're the closest to him. You have the power to end it before it even starts."

At first he did not understood, but once the light filled the obscure corners of his mind the man balked.

"I-I can't do that." He refused adamantly, almost offended that she would suggest it. "You're asking for me to _murder_ someone. A friend."

"Friend?" Samara scoffed, surprised that the word was even included in this conversation. "How can you still protect him? He doesn't give a shit about you."

"I knew Philip before he became the Governor. That man still exists underneath."

"I don't believe that. He's a monster."

Milton sighed exasperated. "Okay, so I kill the Governor. Then Martinez takes over. What then? Killing the Governor doesn't save you or your friends."

True. They might just swap one mad man for another, but in Samara's book anyone else was better than the Governor. For starters, Martinez's mind was nowhere near that perverted or broken. He was only an attack dog.

"Then we go to war."

"I don't believe that you want this. You have no qualms killing someone to defend yourself, but even you wouldn't cross the line into straight murder, I know that much at least. Because that's what this situation will escalate into. Men and women of all ages, who are scared and have no idea who your group even is, will be forced to take up arms and kill. And up to someone like you or Merle, they will be like striking flies away. My friends will die. My family." His knuckles paled as the grip on the bars left his fingers bloodless. "I can't allow that."

"Well…that's your prerogative." Samara shrugged nonchalantly, not at all perturbed by the notion of _their_ impending death. "All I know is that your leader left me with no choice but what you just described. And yes, they will fall like flies. I have no mercy for your people."

His frustration was rising to dangerous points. A cornered animal. Samara knew he was trying to reel her to his side, but it was a lost cause. She worshiped the altar of bloody vengeance.

"Is there nothing I can say that will change your mind?"

 _Is he seriously asking?_ "After he beat me? After he dislocated my shoulder and cut off my finger? After he raped Michonne? Stabbed Rick? Killed his wife and a friend here?" Samara chuckled but her stony expression did not once change from its nihilistic disposition. "No, Milton…There will only be blood between us."

"He did that because your friend killed his daughter!"

Samara huffed, crossing her arms. "Yes, I heard about the little undead child. And it seems you're also _very_ aware of her. Didn't that tip you off, Milton? That your leader is not quite right in the head?"

"He was grieving!" The man exploded, at the end of her rather cool disposition when everything was down-spiraling so sour. "Everyone deals with the death in their own way. Philip's way had been twisted to others, but I can't even begin to imagine the death of your own child. What horror he must have gone through. He didn't want to part from her or put her down in the event that a cure was found, so he kept her hidden in his apartment. Why do you think I'm so fascinated with the undead? I'm trying to find a cure. For him! That is my repayment for taking me along and keeping me alive."

"That's no excuse." Anger flashed, cracking her still mask. "Anyone who does something like that is from the start _insane_. The violence, the rape, the heads in fish tanks…What part of that screams grieving and not madness?"

Was Milton that afraid with the happenings around him that he chose disillusionment for survival? Did he blind himself to the Governor's wrongdoings just so he could live to see the next day?

"He made people fight until they bled, Milton. He corrupted Woodbury, infecting it with his own poison. Your people are scared of him, that's why they don't go against him. I heard what he did to Stevens, Alice and Martinez when they tried to regain control of Woodbury. Why do you think Alice and Stevens ran away with us? Are you sure that what you're following so willingly isn't the devil himself?"

Milton was at a loss, she could see it. Her words had destabilized him. The foggy sheen over his eyes told her that what he was seeing was not the present but the past. What had he witnessed that made him doubt his own words?

"That man might have been normal once, but he's been broken beyond redemption. Maybe it's time you put your blinders away and see _Philip_ for what he has become instead of doting on what he used to be. The only way to deal with a rabid dog is to put it down."

 _Isn't that right, Shane?_

"You _have_ to do this. For everyone's sake. I don't believe that Martinez will pursue this war once he takes charge."

Milton scoffed, almost in disgust. "You don't know him as I do." He took off his glasses and massaged the bridge of his nose. The pounding in his skull was intolerable. "I think…I'm going to rest now. I'm _tired_."

Samara waited until he receded in the darkness before departing. She hoped that she gave him enough fodder to ruminate over. The man had to wake up from this spell the Governor had cast over him and see the truth of the world. Black and white had never been as obvious as today, the grey line in between a faded memory.

Evil had a shape and it was so close to home.

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_ While writing the Daryl and Samara kink I was listening to Marylin Manson's 'Third Day of a Seven Day Binge'. The sensual beat in that song made the scene infinitely better in my book. Also the lyrics matched our star duo. Give it a try if you want.


	51. Devil Beside You

The silence was eerie as almost everyone sat in the courtyard, watching the group prepare to move out and meet their executioner. The disapproval hung heavy in the air as already several had tried dissuading their leader from this foolish endeavor. It would not end well, they alleged.

Samara was afraid. This was a huge risk that might not turn in their favor in the end. Rick, Daryl and Hershel's life could be lost and what would happen to the group then? Even one life lost in these times could mean life or death. They would have to flee the prison and seek refuge elsewhere, their tails tucked between their legs.

 _Goddammit, if they die…_

Her gaze wandered over to Rick. Poor Rick, who was met with nothing but heartache at every turn, must now confront his wife's probable killer and act civil for the good of the group, when she knew all he wanted was to strangle the man with his bare hands.

And Daryl…

She bit her lip savagely, feeling tiny crimson pearls gather and stain her teeth.

It was similar to a funeral procession, their farewells. Everyone was grim faced and Rick hugged his children for dear life as did Hershel with his daughters and son-in-law. Daryl talked in hushed tones with his brother and from the looks of it, Merle was not pleased. He scowled and spat, his opinion on his brother's trip plain as day. Daryl soon parted with his brother, a bitter touch to the hunter. Next was Carol to which the woman embraced him fiercely, offering encouraging words. Even Beth seemed to jump at the chance to bid her farewells to the hunter, offering him a quick embrace and shy smile.

Then the man turned to her, unsure if he should approach or not. Samara knew what hesitations traveled through his mind, but she had no qualms. The others would sooner or later learn of their thirsts so why prologue the inevitable. Besides, what the others thought of their dysfunctional relationship did not matter in the slightest anymore. Samara had always done what she wanted, damn the consequences.

Tentatively, the man advanced, his eyes fleeting for a fraction of a second towards the others, mindful of an audience. Samara could tell from her position that barely anyone watched his excursion save for his brother (who gave Samara the stink eye), Michonne, Andrea, Carol and the young blonde.

He was nervous. Not for the situation at hand, but for what awaited them out there. His veins were bulging and his jaw was locked tight. Despite the hunter's opinion that they should meet this man that dogged their heels with deadly intent, he too felt the peril that peeked around the corner.

"If things get hairy, or if you get a bad feeling, get everyone out immediately."

Samara had no doubt that he would even if she hadn't told him. The man was always vigilant of dangers and the slightest whiff of it set him off like a bloodhound.

"And if you have the shot, take it."

He offered her no answer, his penetrating eyes searching deep into her soul. To her utter surprise, the man caught her hand and gave it a warm squeeze. She faintly wondered if it would embarrass him if she mentioned the faint rosiness of his cheeks. It was surely tempting…

She wanted to go with him. She wanted to end this madness then and there. The Governor had to die—

"Keep my brother in check." Almost as if sensing her growing agitation, Daryl's grip on her tightened. "I ain't trustin' him not to try somethin' stupid."

"But you trust me?"

"Almost."

Samara smirked, but the small jolt of amusement died instantly. If Lady Luck did not favor them today then this might be the last time Samara saw the hunter. Her heart clenched uneasily at the thought of living through that miserable chaos once more.

"Come back here alive."

Her fingers wrapped around his tightly, almost wishing they could prolong this moment. But Rick was calling and Daryl would always effortlessly respond. The man almost left her side before pausing and quickly offering a small peck on her forehead.

Samara watched the car plow through the undead with a heavy conscious.

* * *

The ticking of the clock set Samara on edge. Like an addict, she kept glancing at her watch and counting the seconds and minutes from the moment the group left. How long will they be gone, an hour? Two? A day?

Samara sighed. If she continued with this behavior, she would get early ulcers. What good would worrying about something she couldn't see do? Daryl and the others were far out of her reach. The men could fend for themselves if trouble arose. Rick and Daryl were among their strongest, but that still did not ease her fears. Even a lion could be brought down.

With their official leader gone, Tyreese was left in charge and wasted no time in giving everyone tasks to accomplish. The only decision, Samara thought, as the people of the prison sat on the fearful verge. Giving them something to occupy their time with was a much needed distractor. That and they needed to continue fortifying the prison to recuperate the lost days spent locked inside the building.

Samara inspected the batch of weapons she had been given, checking the feed and loading system. By now, it was a grown reflex from countless years around guns. She was barely aware of her actions as she went through them on auto-pilot, consistently checking the time between weapons.

Some of the others were around, receiving instructions or preparing for their assignment. Only one paced restlessly as he threw veiled glares at anyone he set his eyes upon, mostly Samara.

"Carl, stash these at the loading dock." Tyreese handed him a few boxes of ammunition before turning to Beth. "You put more up on the catwalk. If anyone gets pinned down, we need to make sure that they have plenty of ammo. I'll go work on the cage outsi—"

"What we should be doing is loadin' some of this firepower in a truck and payin' a visit to the Governor!" Merle shouted, his agitated steps coming to a stop. "We know where he is right now."

"Are you suggesting that we just go in and kill him?" Tyreese scowled subtlety, only a faint frown on his forehead. Merle was not among his favorite people. He had been the one to capture Michonne, after all.

"Yeah, I am."

"We told Rick and Daryl that we'd stay put." Michonne quipped from her place beside Samara, her voice deep and gaze foreboding.

"I've changed my mind, sweetheart. Being on the sideline with my brother out there ain't sittin' right with me."

"The three of them are right in the middle of it with no idea we're coming." Tyreese diverted Merle's attention. "They could get taken hostage or killed. A thousand things could go wrong."

"And they will."

"My dad can take care of himself." Carl said, standing with his back straight in the face of Daryl's brother.

"Sorry son, but your dad's head could be on a pike real soon."

"Don't say that to him." Samara snapped in warning. What the hell was Merle doing? Did he want to start a fight? "Not now." _Not so soon._

Merle scowled and spat her way. More and more the man resembled a caged beast, longing for freedom. Understandable as he had been accustomed to partial freedom in Woodbury, coming and going as he pleased. Now, he had been reduced to dwelling in a morose prison with curfew and restrictions among people he neither knew nor liked…and the feeling was quite mutual.

"It's not the right move." Tyreese barked decisively, not giving Merle's influence even an inch to spread. "Not now. Can't take the risk of putting them in the crossfire. That's my decision. It's _final_."

Merle grimaced and backed down. To Samara's utter displeasure, the man approached her table. From the corner of her eye, she saw the way Michonne tensed, in case of the unpredictable.

"The three of us can go there." He hissed as he loomed over the two women, unaware of the glare burning in his back from said temporary leader. "We can sneak in and take 'em out. We can do this."

"I'm not risking it." Samara said brusquely. Tyreese's fears were valid. Who knew how a cluster fuck of that proportions might end.

Michonne, as silent as ever, denied him with a shake of her head. She of all had more reason to want the Governor's head, but she remained put knowing the risks involved.

"You care for my brother, so why are you leavin' him out there for the wolves to chew on?"

"Because he asked me to stay."

"He could be dead by now!" The veins in his neck bulged with barely suppressed anger.

"Stop trying to rile me. I'm not leaving the prison and neither are you. If you try, I will beat you senseless. Stay. Put."

With a snarl of frustration, Merle spat and left the area, retreating in the other parts of the prison. With his shadowy presence gone, the room stifling air seemed to ease by a fraction. The man was too tense and too eager for blood. He could pose a danger later on when his fuse reached its limits. She would have to keep her eyes and ears pricked.

The truth was, Samara wanted nothing more than to hop into a car and speed over to the meeting point, and if she somehow ran over the Governor, all the better. Waiting had never been her forte, especially when she knew that her hands were free to act, but she had promised the sheriff that she would listen to his command. The woman had calculated the risks and knew that it could only end badly if she ambushed the sight. There would be loses and she would not have that on her conscious. For all she knew, the Governor posted hidden sentries or had the place surrounded with his soldiers. The man was cautious enough to attempt it.

There was nothing else to do but wait and hope.

* * *

Daryl rummaged through a dead walker's pockets. With a small smile of success, he discovered a pack of cigarettes. A full and intact one, even.

Turning, he offered one to the man leaning on one of the rusty water tanks, his eyes vigilant for any possible dangers.

"Nah, I prefer menthols." Martinez refused.

Daryl snorted derisively as he lit one up, enjoying the taste of nicotine he had been deprived of for days now.

The hunter counted an hour since Rick and the Governor entered that barn. At first glance, Daryl had sensed the man's imposing presence. Even with one eye and bandaged fingers, the man sent a shiver of uncertainty down his back. There was a deep, seething malice hidden in that lone eye and it dawned on Daryl then and there the truth of this meeting.

His grip on his crossbow had tightened to a bruising crunch. It had taken Hershel's calm voice to sooth his agitated nerves. The hunter wanted nothing but to cave in the man's skull, to fill him with arrows until not a patch of skin could be visible. This was the bastard that hurt his friends, that cut off Samara's finger and he was standing right in front of him and Daryl could do nothing about it lest he turn this 'peaceful' assembly into a bloodbath. But the thought was there…One quick move and he could end it all.

Rick was another story. Daryl could have felt his anger from a yard away. The man was filled to the brim with pure hatred, but the sheriff kept himself in check as the two faction leaders entered the barn. The geek had tried to waltz inside alongside them but the Governor barred his way. He was not needed, his rigid one eye conferred.

Milton sat tense, his attention on the barn door, vigilant of any raised voices or signs of a scuffle. Hershel had joined him not long after and the two eloped into a silent conversation that seemed to calm the nervous man.

Now…the other problem that Daryl felt like strangling with his bare hands was the Hispanic that infiltrated his people and disclosed their location, Martinez. Daryl might not have known him for long but his actions have landed him into the list of names Daryl had no qualms in killing without a single before thought. The man was scum—a traitor and a deceiver.

A show of strength had ensued between the both of them. Who could shoot faster and further killing their undead target with one shot. Who could take one down with barely any sound and further down the list they went, until they found themselves patrolling the surroundings, a safe distance between them.

Daryl watched the man behind hooded eyes. He could handle a weapon expertly and swing his baseball bat like a pro. This was no ordinary civilian.

"You army or somethin'?"

"Nah, I just hate these things." He toed a dead walker, a look of faint disgust contorting his features. "After what they did to my wife and my students I just can't feel anything but rage towards them."

The man paused then made a motion towards the cigarette pack in Daryl's hand. He lit one up and inhaled the rush of nicotine deeply into his lungs.

"Never thought that Merle would find his brother again. I mean, come on. What were the chances? I always thought it was a wild goose chase, something for Merle to hang onto in this messed up world." He chuckled softly, almost mockingly. "Boy, was I wrong."

"He knew I was alive and I knew he was." Daryl said firmly convinced. "Sometime, somewhere, we'd come across again. It ain't no miracle."

"Maybe to you. The way I see it the chances of you two finding each other again were like the same chances of finding a cure for this undead plague." Martinez scrutinized him meticulously. "You ain't like him. If he was here, Merle would've spat at me, made some racist japes, maybe even tried to swing a fist. You must be the smart one of the family."

Daryl's frown deepened. Was this man subtlety provoking him?

"Trust me, if this was no peace talk, I would've beaten you bloody. You brought that asshole to my doorstep. I ain't forgettin' that."

Martinez shrugged, not at all perturbed. "We all have our jobs to do. Nothing personal, man. I gotta survive in this world too."

"Doesn't have to be over our dead bodies."

The man smiled. There was an air of futility laced to it. "It ain't up to me to judge that."

No…it was up to the two men in that barn, squabbling over their right to live and die.

"By the way, how's the Native?"

Something in Daryl shifted. There was an extreme caution to him and the words he would utter.

Martinez must have sensed his reluctance and elaborated on his inquiry with an air of amusement. "I used to be her guard when she came to us. At first, I didn't think much of her and I couldn't see what the Governor saw. That is until she killed Micah. Chica's got some brass stones on her."

"What do you mean?"

"She didn't tell you?" The man smirked almost arrogantly. "That crazy woman volunteered for the arena. She wanted to fight one of assholes that brought her to Woodbury. She did and to top it all off, she threw him onto a biter." The man whistled appreciatively. "I've seen some fights before, but that definitely is in the top five."

She never said any of that, Daryl thought as he felt his expression settled into a frown. In fact, he barely knew anything of what happened to Samara while she had lived with these people. There hadn't been any time. He did not appreciate this man having the advantage while he lay in the dark.

"Made me think…" He exhaled a cloud of smoke as he gazed into the grey sky above, a pensive air about him. "She would've done well in Woodbury if we came upon her first. Governor liked her well enough. She could have been his right hand."

That irked Daryl… _badly_.

"I thought Merle was."

Martinez scoffed with a tinge of animosity. "Yeah, and look how that turned out. Something tells me that woman ain't no Judas when it comes to people she cares for."

 _No, she ain't_. Samara might grumble, threaten and butt heads, but in the end she would always be there in case the group needed help. Perhaps it was that old law enforcement behavior—protect and serve—that kept her dutiful to the well-being of the group, but Daryl also knew that she had grown attached to them in her own distant and brusque way.

"Samara would've never been part of you." Daryl proclaimed firmly, ignoring the distant mocking voices in his head.

"Keep telling yourself that, man, but I think she would've been more at ease with us than you guys. You people are the quiet, passive type. Governor ain't." A shadow passed over Martinez's eyes, of something dark and disturbing. "And she ain't either."

Later, he would wonder why he had remained silent. Why he had not vehemently refused the Hispanic's assertion. Perhaps, because somewhere deep down he too knew the truth of it. Daryl himself would not be the person he was today if he had split from the group a long time ago. It was not hard to imagine himself without the influence of Rick, Carol and the others. Samara wouldn't be any different.

Martinez had a knowing look about him. There was a clarity in those orbs that straightened Daryl's spine.

"You know this is a joke, right? They ain't gonna work anything out." He gestured towards the direction of the barn. "Sure, they'll do their little dance and tomorrow, next day...they'll give the word."

The hunter didn't need to be told. He had realized it upon seeing the Governor. There was no peace to be found no matter how much this Milton craved it. Words were wind these days. How you acted was all that mattered.

The grey skies above them darkened ominously.

* * *

It was by chance that she heard it.

At first it had been faint, but upon investigation the sounds of a scuffle became increasingly clear as she heard Tyreese's voice mingling with Merle's in a cacophony of insults. A woman's voice joined and vaguely Samara identified it as Sasha's.

 _That goddamn idiot! He did_ exactly _what I told him not to do!_

Why was she even surprised? Merle was not exactly a creature prone to listening to orders, especially of people he did not like or didn't have a smidgen of fear of. It was inevitable that he would fly off the handle.

Turning the corner, she came upon both Merle and Tyreese, angry and tussled, exchanging blows while Sasha hit the Georgia redneck over his back with a baseball bat. Merle howled in pain and that small distraction allowed Tyreese to expertly tackle the man to the ground as only a football player could. The impact of spine against cement was loud enough even for Samara to hear and wince over.

It didn't take long for Samara to figure out what might have happened. There were enough weapons in the room to start a fight and considering the half full duffel on the ground and scattered ammunition, Merle had most likely wanted to supply himself so he could run after his brother and 'save' him. Only problem was he got caught red handed.

Unholstering her gun, the Native calmly padded over to the brawling duo. At this point, Tyreese had the man in a powerful lock, paralyzing his movement especially that of his prosthetic hand. But the old redneck was strong as he bucked into the other man's hold almost escaping.

Merle froze in his fury as he felt the cool muzzle of a gun pressed against the side of his temple.

"I say one thing, you do the other." Samara whispered softly, her eyes betraying the calmness of her body. There was livid fire raging inside those green orbs. "If you don't calm down right now, I will put a bullet through you."

"You won't." Merle snarled. "Daryl—"

The gun cocked loudly making Merle's words vanish from his tongue.

" _Don't_ test me. I don't have the patience for your unpredictable behavior right now. Daryl and Rick wanted us to stay put and we will, you included. So, shut the fuck up and stay calm."

It was bad enough they had people in the field with heavy chances of not returning. They did not need Merle throwing hay into the fire. If he did not calm down, Samara would shoot him in the leg and confine him to a cell to bleed out until he was weak enough to cause no more trouble. Killing him was too extreme, but hurting him felt just _right_.

Merle must have calculated his odds of getting out of this predicament alive and unharmed and came to the conclusion that listening might not be the worst choice in that moment. The man deflated entirely under Tyreese's rough handling, but Samara could see the strain in his locked jaw and knew that his ego was far from satisfied.

"Let go of me!" He shouted at Tyreese, wriggling. "Let go!"

Once obeyed, Merle got to his feet and shuffled out of the room on quick and rigid feet. On his way, he glared venomously at Samara, dark times promised ahead.

Once he was out of hearing range, Samara let out the breath she had been holding. This just proved it—Merle was a loose cannon. He will never adapt to the group or the hierarchy of the place, not unless Rick proved his dominance. From a certain angle, Merle was a simple beast. He would follow an alpha stronger than him but only if proven worthy and considering Rick's current mental state, there was no chance of that happening.

Samara would not be surprised if he tried breaking out of the prison again. A tiger never changed its stripes, after all.

Without even thinking her steps followed in his wake, her voice echoing in the large room enough for the two occupants to hear.

"Have two capable people with the ammo and weapons at all times. I don't trust him not to try that again."

She did not need to see or hear Tyreese's agreement to know he full-heartedly approved.

Following the enraged bull proved to be quite easy as the man trampled in his path, his boots creating a loud resonance.

"What are you trying to prove?" She spoke into the dimness of the corridor, a safe distance from him. "That you're a great warrior or some shit?"

The man stopped and whipped back with desperate anger, spit flying as he yelled.

"I'm just tryin' to keep my brother alive!"

"And how do you think chargin' in there is gonna help?" Samara challenged his logic. "You'll just get everyone killed, your brother included."

Merle was thinking on impulse. He wanted the Governor dead and he wanted it now, didn't matter if some died along the way. The end justified the means. She knew how deceiving that train of thought was. For a long time, Samara had been a close adept of that doctrine. Had gotten others in precarious situations to achieve her goal and never once looked back or felt any guilt. But not anymore, not when she had people she had to protect.

"This is not the way to kill the Governor. Ambushing the 'peace talk' will only result in death—of our people and theirs. Think about it for more than a second. Hershel is old and crippled, he would be the first to go. Then Rick because he would most likely try and save Hershel and then your brother. You know how prickly his temper is. Once he gets angry he doesn't think reasonably anymore. A trait I see you both share."

If she hadn't cared…If she hadn't befriended Rick and forged this strange relationship with Daryl…She would have followed Merle into the fray. This opportunity was once in a lifetime. She could have sniped the Governor from a safe distance and end this recurring nightmare she was currently living in. But losing them…The Samara of now could not bear it.

"I'm scared also, Merle. I'm fucking _scared_ that he won't return, him and Rick and Hershel. That all of this was just a wicked plot to get them alone and kill them or worse, capture and use them against us." Samara swallowed the knot in her throat and felt her chest constrict painfully. So many scenarios ran through her head that a low pounding headache wormed its way to the surface. Acid built up in her stomach as a result of her fried nerves causing a burning that had her dry heaving.

—She was a mess on the inside, but she stayed put.

"But I _can't_ go there, or you for that matter. I can vividly see what will happen if we do and I won't allow it. The only thing we can do is _wait_."

 _And hope they come back._

"Bullshit." Merle snorted derisively. His blue eyes were narrowed into stony slits, his anger now a tiger stalking its prey from the shadows. "You know _I'm_ right. I know you thought of it too. I saw the way your eyes lusted for blood when I first suggested it. If the two of us go there, we can do this. End it all before it goes any further. So what it the old man or the sheriff dies? Better them than the whole lot of ya. Because trust me when I say this, sweetheart, you don't want that man knocking on your door _twice_. There ain't gonna be a third time. The folks here, they're strong, good fighters, but they ain't killers. If it comes to war, then you're all screwed."

Samara felt her toes curl in anger, but she did not let herself express more than that. She would not reveal even an inch of her thoughts to this man. This was a battle of their own the two of them were fighting—a battle of wills.

"Rick is. Daryl is. So is Michonne and Andrea. Carl put down his own mother." And the others would too when push came to shove. Nobody was impervious to their baser instincts.

"Mercy killin'." Merle spat in disgust. "That don't make him an assassin."

Samara sneered knowingly. "But you are."

"When I have to be." Which had been probably often enough in the Governor's employment.

He took a step closer to Samara, his eyes shining like the treasure of a magpie. "Me and my brother, we have a few calls we use when we hunt. I'll give him a heads up. He'll warn the others. Maybe that'll save 'em." Even in the slight darkness, Samara could see the eagerness about him for chaos. "You blast the Governor's head off, I'll take care of the rest. We'll be home before you know it."

 _Goddamn you._

"You're on your own. You get people killed, it's on you."

Spurned, Merle spun around with a few choice curses and left her in the empty hallway to brood.

Samara felt her fingers go lax, her nails coated in fresh blood and crescent moons glaring angrily on her palms.

 _Goddammit._

Why was it that it took all in her power to turn away? That his offer had sounded so tempting to almost goad her into doing it? With an already established alarm system, their chances of eliminating the Governor without casualties on their side grew immensely. Daryl would get the others to safety or at least buy time to assure it while she, Michonne and Merle could sneak in the area. Her sword-wielder friend would also come without a doubt. Michonne would be in her element there, she could take out any sentries in silence with her katana. Andrea would be a major asset as well. She was their best pair of eyes—she could pick off any soldiers the Governor had from a distance. The chaos would assure Merle and she delivered the finishing blo—

 _No. Stop thinking about it._

Russet fingers raked through her hair in frustration. She should be there, delivering a hail of bullets, not confined to the prison by a man's orders. But she _promised_. Daryl never said it, but she had seen it in his eyes and Samara had silently vowed to stay back and not act.

Samara shivered. Her promise might just come back to bite her in the ass one day.

* * *

The sun was high in the sky when the group returned.

Samara felt her breath come easier at the sight of the entire group alive and in one piece. Her silent steps took her to the man on the loud motorcycle. The Native would be a liar if she said that her heart didn't skip a beat at seeing him again.

 _Dammit, it's getting worse._

"Good thing one of us gets to keep their promises." The woman said as she stopped beside his bike, her arms crossed casually across her chest.

The short lived smile withered away like a husk as Daryl shut the engine of his behemoth. There was a tension in him that alerted Samara that the man was on edge. Angry even.

"It didn't go well." Samara hadn't expected any other positive ending in this meeting of giants.

"It was a joke." The Georgia man spoke gruffly. "Ain't no peace talk. Governor was just sizin' us up like Merle said."

"What did he say?"

The tension in his shoulders intensified as his frown deepened. "Rick won't say a word. Somethin' happened. Somethin' he ain't tellin'."

Samara's eyes found the man in question. He appeared the same as always but there was no mistaking the heavy burden on his shoulders weighing him down. His eyes were too focused, too sharp. Samara knew that something was eating away at his heart.

The Native felt Daryl's eyes on her back. The man was scrutinizing her like a prized horse with a tinge of annoyance hidden beneath the surface.

"What?"

As if slapped, Daryl reverted back to his usually frowning self, not a hint of anomaly present.

–It seemed Rick wasn't the only one with a chip on his shoulders.

Inside the prison, everyone gathered around Rick to hear of his exploits. Nervous and fearful, the group stood straight and tall in the face of adversity. Whatever may come their way they will handle it with all the strength and willpower their bodies could muster.

Samara sat at the back of the group with the Dixon brothers in her vicinity.

"So, I met this Governor." Rick said, as his hands rested firmly on his hips. There was a grave air about him as if the funeral procession had finally reached its destination. "Sat with him for quite a while."

"Just the two of you?" Merle asked, a doubtful look about him.

The sheriff nodded.

Samara almost choked on her own silent curses when Merle turned towards her with a knowing expression, whispering poison.

"Should have gone when we had the chance, hun."

She wanted to punch him. To kick and spit at him. But worst of all, she wished she could knocked herself out for losing such a golden opportunity. The regret that plagued her mind was like a festering wound, bleeding her dry.

"He wants the prison." Rick proclaimed clearly. There was no turning back anymore. "He wants us gone. He wants us _dead_ for what we did to Woodbury."

The man's eyes were two arctic glaciers, angry and determined, now more than ever, to survive the ordeal that was about to come. The people around him would be there beside him, through the thick and thin. As scared and doubtful as they were, Rick knew that they could survive anything thrown at them. Too many ordeals have they fought through to die here at the hands of this man.

They will fight.

They will see the light of day again.

"We're going to war."

And they will prevail.

* * *

Milton lagged behind, but he was still close enough to hear the Governor when he spoke. The two of them and Martinez had arrived not a few minutes ago back in Woodbury and everyone seemed to be on edge with the outcome of this 'secret' meeting. It had gone rather well, all things considered. No hostilities had erupted which Milton had expected with a heavy heart. To his utter surprise and relief, the two leaders had talked without once breaking into extreme argument and neither Martinez nor Merle's brother had gone for the throat upon seeing each other. Out of all of them, Mr. Greene had been the kindest. They had some interesting conversations during the wait and Milton had been grateful for the distraction.

It saddened him though that they would have to live secluded from one another. Milton felt like he could learn so much from them and he knew Woodbury would benefit also from a collaboration with the prison group, but alas, it was not meant to be. The two factions would have to live with borders.

At least it had been decide. No more blood was to be spilt, no more deaths to be had. Life could return to its peaceful days again.

"Martinez." The Governor's crisp cut voice brought Milton out of his reverie. There was something he did not like in the man's tone. Something he had heard before in his darker moods.

"Yeah?"

"Position gunmen all around that barn. The minute you see them, you open fire. Kill the others, but you keep Michonne alive."

It was like a bomb dropped in Milton's stomach.

Martinez nodded not at all perturbed by the man's sudden change in plan and jogged ahead for his current assignment. Left alone with the Governor, Milton felt his entire body tremble in shell-shock. _What?_ He hoped he heard wrong because there was no feasible way the Governor just said that. They had brokered a truce—

"W-What about the deal?" Milton caught up to the man and gripped his arm, almost forcefully enough to cause the one- eyed man to frown in annoyance.

 _Please don't tell me you intend to continue this madness._

The Governor only shrugged, unaware or uncaring of the other man's aggravated state. "Well, they'll bring Rick, Merle's brother, maybe the Asian boy or Samara and Merle himself. We can take care of the whole crew. It's the best way to avoid a slaughter."

"That is a slaughter!" Milton all but exploded, his mind unable to process the man's extreme callousness.

 _You can't do this. You promised you would leave this confrontation behind._

"Not at our end." The Governor looked at him with a sparkle in his eye. There was even a slight upturn of his lips as if he was suppressing laughter…Laughing at Milton and his futile struggle. "We're gonna have to eliminate Rick sooner or later. No way can we all live side by side."

Milton stood petrified as the Governor merrily patted him on the shoulder and resumed his walk, leaving his 'friend' behind.

The buzzing in his ears grew louder until nothing could be heard but the angry hornet's nest. A numbness overcame his limbs giving him a tiredness he hadn't felt in ages. The tips of his fingers and toes were cold as ice and his throat constricted to the point of pain. He knew what it was—his heart was caving in. The sorrow he was currently subjected to was drowning him. Pulling him to the dark bottom of the ocean, never to be seen again.

His _friend_ …He lied to him. To those people. And they had no idea what fate awaited them.

He could hear the screams already…see the blood…the corpses…

—What he will do to that poor woman.

As the images drove nails into his mind, Milton felt a quiet anger boil in his stomach. Slowly, it spread to his intestines, his lungs until it reached his throat, scalding it with its intensity. He wanted to rip his clothes off, tear off his hair from the roots, anything to stop this madness from escaping his body.

Why was it so hard for people to live together in harmony? Were they so indoctrinated by past teachings that they could not put aside their differences anymore? This plague was supposed to be a fresh start. Milton had taken it as one. He had overcome his aversion to people, started communicating more openly and even made some friends, something he had lacked severely in his former life.

No…It wasn't the people of Woodbury who could not move past their anger…It was _him._

How much longer will they have to suffer for one man's greed?

* * *

The field was quiet.

The walkers shuffled aimlessly without a visual or hearing stimulant. There was almost a fluid swing to their movements, reminding of dancers slow waltzing among the tall grass. It could almost be said that it was peaceful, but the man could not see it. He stood stock still on the suspended bridge, his mind in a turmoil. Rick overlooked the field despondently, his thoughts repeatedly flying back to his lengthy conversation with the Governor.

—Should he accept his proposition? In the end, what was one life in the face of many?

Seeing the man again had disturbed the former sheriff. He had felt the immediate urge to lash out, to kick and punch, to hurt…to kill. Not only for his dead wife, but for the sensation of a blade slicing through his skin and muscles, pinning his hand to a table. He hadn't forgotten what the Governor had done to him and Rick was of the mind to pay him back thoroughly.

But not with Hershel and Daryl there. Not while he risked their lives and risked the chance of never returning to his son and newborn daughter.

So Rick had swallowed his anger and marched in that animal barn and sat down patiently with the man. They had talked of many things, but in the end it had all concluded to hostilities. Rick had known that no other result would have bloomed from their meeting and he had not wanted any other. Deep down, Rick craved blood. He had lost too many people—Oscar, Axel, Lori. They're deaths had to be avenged.

But then, his mind wandered off to the ones still alive. How long will they still breathe if this war continued? How many more corpses will he have on his conscious?

The man had offered a way out—Michonne. Give him the woman and he will forget about the wrongs against him. But how much of that was true and how much fiction?

As he ruminated over his options, something snowy in the watch tower caught his eye. As his vision adjusted, he felt his muscles lock in primal fear.

It was _her_.

She had come back to haunt him.

Ever since he had emerged from the Tombs, he had seen her everywhere. She only appeared at a vast distance, her features unrecognizable, but Rick _knew_. He had known the woman for twenty odd years how could he ever forget the shape of her body, her hair, the way she stood and walked. The man had denied it at first—it couldn't be her, she was dead. He tried to rub his eyes of the illusion, shake her off, and even repeatedly chant inside his mind that 'it wasn't real'. Nothing worked. She was still there, watching him with those soulful eyes. He had finally lost his mind, Rick thought. The grief had snapped his soul in half, and he still remembered the terror he felt when he realized that her specter was getting closer day by day.

Every time he saw her he felt a stab in his heart. Was this his punishment for not being there for her? Was she haunting him? He did not want her here, mostly because he reminded her of his failures—as a husband, as a man and as a father.

She did not need to haunt him for him to feel like the lowest life form on the planet…

"What do you want?" He whispered harshly.

But she never once answered. She just stood still as a statue and looked down on him, a deep sadness contorting her features. She was _crying_ silent tears _._

"I'm sorry. I—"

"Rick?"

The former sheriff immediately shut his mouth tight as one door to the catwalk opened with rusty hinges. Hershel appeared, a perplexed look about him.

"Were you talkin' to someone?" He stared around, searching for signs of another present soul.

"Just thinkin' out loud." The small smile on Rick's lips was frozen and far from genuine. His gaze wandered for a moment back to the guard tower, but the specter had vanished. She never once remained while others lingered. Her presence was for his questionable sanity only. "What is it?"

"I want to know what happened between you and the Governor." The old man walked up to him, a determined look on his aged face. "What happened that's got you secludin' yourself out here."

Rick sighed. He had known that sooner or later someone would come asking. He just wished it had been later, when he got his mind sorted out.

The Kentucky man gave the farmer a chilling look.

"He gave me a choice. A way out."

"What does he want?"

For a second, Rick closed his eyes. He would need all the inner strength he could muster.

"Michonne."

The effect was immediate. Hershel's eyes widened in trepidation and his mouth slightly hung open. Rick understood the old man's shock as he too had felt it.

"And…" The older man licked his lips, visibly nervous. "What did you say?"

Rick stared out in the distance, his mind a battlefield. _What indeed_ …

* * *

The sound of a sharp blade sliding against wood was trance inducing. Daryl had been sitting transfixed by camp lantern for a few hours now as he forged new arrows. He would need plenty for the upcoming battle, and he would not risk being left without.

' _We're going to war.'_

Daryl almost felt relieved when Rick had finally written it in stone. No more guessing, no more doubts—it was settled now. No matter whether they liked it or not, there will be blood.

How many will die, he wondered. That alone sunk his heart to unimaginable depths. He would once again have to bury a friend. Maybe even a brother…or a lover—

"Shit!"

He sucked on his finger as the blade slid into his flesh. The coppery taste of blood flooded his senses, sharpening his mind. He did not want to think about the possibility of losing the two people he cared more than his own self. If Merle died he knew he would lose his mind in grief. And Samara…

With a growl, the man returned to shaping his arrows. He would not think of them in that sort of gruesome situation. For his sanity's sake, he preferred not to.

Despite his attention mostly captivated by the task at hand, Daryl did not miss the light steps heading towards his cell. At night, every sound in the building increased tenfold so nothing escaped his notice no matter how much anyone tried to hide. Samara was no different.

The curtain to his cell parted and the wolf herself strolled inside like she owned the damned place. This was an issue Daryl hated. Samara had no qualms with walking on someone else's territory, but god forbid someone ever step in her cell uninvited. She did not give a rat's fart about his private space, but he let it slide for now. He did not want to start an argument over her discourtesy.

Samara settled herself on the defunct toilet which Daryl had transformed into a chair. The man could feel those green orbs watching him intently, following each stroke of his blade. He had seen her reaction towards Rick's proclamation—anger, regret, blood lust. She would be one of the few of the prison who gladly awaited the fight.

' _You people are the quiet, passive type. Governor ain't. And she ain't either.'_

Daryl paused in his work as the Hispanic's grating words came to mind. Back then, he did not want to believe him, couldn't, but slowly, memories of the woman and her aggression began rolling like an old film inside his mind. It left a bitter taste in his mouth.

"Saw Martinez again." Daryl felt the blade go in deeper as his resentment bubbled. "Told me he used to be your guard."

Samara nodded casually as she scrutinized his deft fingers. At that point, he almost wanted to shout at her for treating it so lightly. Almost as if was a trivial piece of information.

"He was in the beginning." Samara elaborated as she stole one of his menthol cigarettes and lit it up. It didn't escape his notice that she sniffed in disgust at the taste. "He made sure I didn't try to run away, but he seemed bored most of the time."

"Said you fought in the arena." His eyes were on her now, his hands coming to a halt. "Thought you said Governor didn't need you for that."

Samara watched him carefully as the smoke billowed around her head, hiding her in grey shadows. She was beginning to notice the anger sizzling underneath his skin and Daryl swore he could almost visualize the cogs turning in her head on how to approach the situation.

"He didn't. I _wanted_ to fight."

His frown deepened as his anger spiked. How could she be so stupidly careless? Who in their right mind would want to fight to the death?

"Why?" Sometimes, he swore he could not understand her.

The woman shifted uncomfortably, her eyes fleeting. "The man I wanted to fight was the twin that suggested they hang you. I wanted him to die."

 _Ah…_ Now he understood. Despite the feeling of warmth it created in his gut, the hunter would not let it delude him.

"That was stupid." He growled, his grip on the arrow tightening until his knuckles turned white. "You could've been killed instead."

"But I wasn't." Again, she spoke in that nonchalant way that irked him to the bone. "I calculated the odds. I had a fair chance of winning and I did."

That was all he needed to hear for the lid to pop open.

"Christ!" As his rage hit the point of no return, Daryl threw his arrow away. The shaft snapped in half against the force of his rage. He paced like a caged animal, too much energy inside him to sit still. "You think you're untouchable, huh? That you can't die. Well, take a good look, Samara." He raised his chin, exposing the scar along his neck. "Neither of us is safe."

"Even so, you're alive." The woman reiterated, the same cautious look about her.

"Only because of Maggie!" He spat aggressively. "Otherwise, I'd be a walkin' corpse!"

Samara stared fixedly as the smoke coiled and clouded around her. Daryl did not like the sensation; like a bug under a microscope.

"What did _he_ tell you?"

 _Enough to make me angry._

He just wanted her to be more careful, to value her life more. But the annoying woman that she was, she continued on living as if she were immortal. As if nothing could touch her, neither the living nor the undead. Perhaps after so many brushes with Death it had left her in a numb state devoid of fear for the unknown, but Daryl knew otherwise. He'd deciphered her some time ago.

He just wished…

The man sighed tiredly as he sat back on his bed. It was like trying to push back the tide. Futile and, in the end, mentally exhausting. With a flick of his fingers, he beckoned her closer.

"Come here."

She did, warily at first, before leaving her smoking cigarette behind and settling in his lap. Daryl's arms wrapped around her waist and softly settled his head on her chest. The rhythmic beat of her heart lulled him into a tranquil state, similar to the one he induced on himself upon creating his arrows. Arms wrapped around his back, one hand slowly racking through his hair almost made the man purr. Those willowy fingers of hers coiled around locks of light brown hair and playfully tugged.

Daryl didn't know how long they stood in that position, wrapped round each other, but he could not say that he loathed it. Just the feel of her in his arms was enough to calm the raging tempest inside him. He feared for her, too much for his own good. The hunter wished there was more he could do but he knew the Native would not allow him. She was her own creature and detested needing others, no matter how small or big the issue.

—Perhaps that was why lately he felt such bitter-sweetness whenever they came together.

His grip on her tightened. Daryl kissed her then, but as their lips danced against each other, that same distress washed over him like a cold blanket.

"What's wrong?" He whispered against her wet lips.

"Nothing."

Daryl shook his head. He knew better. "You're lyin'. You're pullin' away again."

Samara stroked his cheek gently and Daryl felt hope slip through his fingers. There was a light smile on her face, but it was only a ghost of happiness long gone. There was only sorrow left in its place now.

He knew. As those golden flakes in her irises shimmered, he knew and he felt something break deep inside him.

"I won't like what you'll have to say, will I?"

The Indian continued to smile her sad smile as her hand stroked his skin with tenderness uncharacteristic of her.

"Let's just enjoy this."

Samara kissed him and Daryl said nothing more on the subject, preferring to hide in the lie that everything was alright. They drown in the heat of their bodies, shutting out the entire world outside their arms. Reality could wait. They only had a precious few instances before one of them might disappear forever in the darkness.

Just for a short while…They could pretend that everything was alright.


	52. Between the Evil and the Lesser

Milton's steps resounded with purpose.

As he crossed the dusty insides of the abandoned factory, he knew just where he would find the man. The due date was almost upon them and that put Philip on edge. He was just brimming with perverse anticipation and Milton could not stall for time any longer. He had to put aside his fear and face his friend once and for all.

His hands were cold and clammy. The mild man knew that his body was trembling in distress, but there was nothing he could do but bear the heavy burden. Out of every soul surviving in Woodbury, he was the only one that could do it.

The Room was the same as he remembered—a vile, dark place infected with Philip's demons. This small space was cursed and even the air surrounding it felt like acid on the tongue. Milton did not wish to be here, his very skin alive with the sensation of centipedes crawling underneath. The nightmares of what he had found here still haunted him at night and he did not wish to know what awaited the woman if the man's plan succeeded.

With a deep breath, Milton pushed open the door. The light inside was so bright it hurt the eyes and in the middle of this tiny, hostile space, was the man he was searching so adamantly for and a chair. It was not ordinary piece of furniture but a dentist's chair with restraints incorporated into its handles. It looked so foreign, so clinical in that dark room that it set Milton's teeth on edge. The shiver that bolted down his spine left his stomach cold as ice. He knew just for _who_ that torture device was intended for. Philip was whistling a low tune that Milton did not recognize, but it was too light-hearted for this obscure place.

Milton's heart clenched as beside the chair was a metallic tray with an array of neatly arranged instruments—scalpels, pliers, hammers and various other sharp medical supplies that could be used to invoke pain and suffering.

The man himself spotted Milton's without even turning, that jolly tune still on his lips.

"What is this?" Milton squeaked, all his previous bravery leaving him like hot air. It only took a bit of imagination to turn him into a fearful mouse once more.

This was not Philip he was dealing with. This was the Governor and Milton was scared to _death_ of that persona.

"It's my workshop."

The nonchalance in which he spoke…The casual way he handled the sharp knives…The thrilled look in his eye…

Milton felt his mind turn to static—

"How does this help Woodbury?" He all but shouted.

The whistling ceased.

Milton could not even decipher the Governor's face, but he knew there laid nothing underneath that polished eye except for malevolence. Even the palpable threat could not stop Milton's words once unleashed. He felt like a broken dam, every bit of fear and anger pouring out of him like an overflowing river. It was just too much for the mild mannered man. Enough that his mind snapped.

"This was supposed to be a new start, a way out!" Milton distantly heard his voice heighten and he did not care. He could shout for all it mattered "What about everything we talked about? Beating this thing? Clawing our way back? Look, this business with Michonne, I understand. But the people at the prison—"

"What? I should move on?" The Governor accentuated each word with tart venom. "Even after what that woman did to _me_? To Penny? I will as soon as this is over."

"Philip—"

"Let me ask you somethin'." The man savagely interrupted him. He would not hear that name. "Do you still believe the biters have some spark in them?"

Milton nodded slowly.

"Then that was my daughter, wasn't it?"

He felt a treacherous vibe travel over his form, warning him to be watchful of his words. "Whether that was Penny or not, it's done. It doesn't matter."

"Oh..." His eyes shone perilously. "It's all that matters. There is no deal."

The man returned to his utensils, picking up where he left off with his jovial tune. Milton sat there, despairing. In the end he hadn't been able to solve anything. He had simply barked at an unmovable tree. A futile gesture by a man so small the Governor did not even notice.

"Tell me, _Governor_ …" Milton's voice was bland, barely even loud enough to his own ears. There was a heaviness about him, chaining him to the floor like an anchor. "Did you set loose biters on those people? Was that why you traveled to the prison?"

The only sound echoing in that dark room was that out of place whistle. He never once skipped a beat, never hitched or forgot a note. The question did not even faze the man in the slightest. Perhaps he did not even hear Milton, trapped as he was in the fantasy he created in this Room of his.

As dark thoughts assaulted the mild man, a calling had his eyes wander over to the many scalpels, shining invitingly.

" _You could end this before it even begins."_

Like a cool breeze, Samara's voice brushed against him, reminding him that he too had a choice in the matter. He could just pick up that scalpel and stab the man now while he was distracted with his 'toys'. But his body betrayed him as a wave of numbness washed over his entire being leaving his hands trembling uncontrollably.

 _No…I can't do that._

He clutched his hands tightly and backed out of the room, his eyes never once diverting from the man himself. Fear would not let him.

As his feet quickly took him through the dirty factory, Milton's mind raced through endless possibilities. He could not let the Governor's plan come to fruition. No matter how the man justified it, it was plain slaughter. He had to save Philip from himself before it became irredeemable.

Why had it come to this? Philip had been such a good man. Anyone else would have never given him the chance to survive and to flourish the way Milton did. He had always been the invisible one; the one everyone forgot his name once they met. He had been a small, insignificant man but then came Philip and pulled him away from the edge of the plague and gave him a purpose in this second life. For once, he felt needed.

Philip had taken care of Woodbury, had breathed life into it. Secured it from the threats outside and minimized the lives lost. Their future looked bright and healthy…and then _they_ came and ruined it all. No…Milton shouldn't blame the prison people. Philip had broken way before they ever appeared. He had heard the rumors of what the Governor did whenever they encountered survivors during runs, but he chose to turn a deaf ear to them. Had seen the arena fights and yet again turned a blind eye to them, finding some reasonable excuse to appease his guilty conscious. But Milton knew deep down…that the day Penny and his wife died, Philip's humanity had been buried along with them. Only an empty shell had been left behind with nothing but wickedness and malevolence, anger and despair driving it forward. Milton had been too blind by the Governor persona to see it.

—In the end, he never really knew Philip, just a shadow of his former self. A sad ghost haunting these plains, never once finding the rest it deserved along with its family.

His steps quickened as his thoughts flew further, beyond the gates of Woodbury. The people at the prison…He had to warn them. It was the only thing to do. The _right_ thing. Perhaps they would succeed where he utterly failed.

But if he took that road, he knew…There would be no turning back. The Governor would not be merciful. Milton would be gambling with his life and, in a sense, he was prepared for it. But in the end nothing could prepare anyone with the eventuality of death. Milton just hoped he could keep his chin high when the moment of Judgement came and not cower like the fraidy-cat he was.

But first, he had to take care of something here at home. Something he knew the Governor kept as an appetizer for the people he was about to chain down to his madness.

—The time of the arena was over.

* * *

"You can't do this!"

"Daryl—"

"No!"

Daryl wretched his shoulder away in revolt from Officer Friendly. By now, his baby brother must be seething with anger. He recognized that clenched jaw anywhere.

"It's not just Michonne who you'd destroy. It's Andrea. Tyreese…Samara. Everyone! You send Michonne to the Governor, this group will break!"

Merle would've laughed if he didn't need to keep his presence a secret. This is what concerned his brother? That the group would bawl their eyes out if they sent the Jungle Bunny as a wrapped up gift to the Governor? How low he had fallen…

The older Dixon hadn't meant to intrude on this top secret conversation. He had been just foraging for leftover drugs the former occupants of the prison might have left behind when he came upon a pair of voices whispering heatedly to one another. Like the curious animal that he was, Merle hadn't been able to resist the temptation and sneaked closer for better hearing. Once he recognized his brother's gruff voice, his interest skyrocketed.

For once, he was glad to have listened to the devil on his shoulders. The conversation between his brother and the sheriff proved to be most enlightening.

"Keep your voice down, Daryl!" Rick hissed at the angry hunter. "I ain't sending her away. She's one of us."

Why wasn't Merle surprised…Of course the good sheriff would not doom one of his people even if it meant their salvation. He'd rather have them all suffer the same fate. But then again, even if they gave the samurai away it would still not appease the Governor. He knew the man all too well. Most likely it was some sort of ambush he was planning.

"I don't believe the Governor's gonna back down, even if we give him Michonne. He's not the type of guy to let things go so easily. He wants all of us dead. Michonne won't suffice."

Merle scoffed. For once the sheriff used his God given brain to think instead of with his _feelings_. At the man's reassurance, his little brother seemed to deflate from his anger, his perpetual frown returning to its place.

"So, what do we do?"

"We make a plan. He's gonna be there expecting us to deliver Michonne, I say we do—"

Daryl opened his mouth for a retort—

"As a trap." Rick stopped the rant that was ready to escape Daryl's mouth. "We get our people there and gun down the soldiers he most likely will have posted."

Merle approved of that idea, but knowing the Governor, he too will think of that matter. No doubt sentries will be posted around the location, a safeguard in case of foul play on Rick's part. They would have to take those sentinels out first before even attempting to battle the Governor. Rob him of his eyes and ears and they could steal an advantage.

"We don't know how many will be there." Daryl huffed in heavy doubt. "Might be more than we can handle."

"They don't have the combat experience we do."

Now that was where Rick was wrong. The Governor had able-bodied soldiers. Men that killed at a drop of a hat. Merle knew as he had led them and even taught some of them the arts of combat. If Merle were to assume, he'd say that the two factions were about even in combat capable people, but the Governor still overwhelmed them with numbers. The other residents of Woodbury might not be fit to even walk a soldier's path but a gun they could hold. They just had to shoot forward and hope for the best. If anything, the Governor had some meat shields and dispensable sacrifices he could use.

This was not good. The older hunter could see the potential in Rick's idea but by the looks of Daryl, he would most likely refuse. It could prove an opportunity to kill the Governor once and for all, why were these people once again ignoring it?

—He had to do something.

This time he refused to sit on the side lines and watch as opportunity after opportunity slipped by because of some idiotic notions such as morals or a clean conscious. Those things did not exist anymore. They were a dream long gone of an era where the law governed everyone.

Freedom was theirs now, to do whatever the hell they wanted.

And that was what Merle intended. For nothing in his life would he ever be the one to bury his brother. Not while he still breathed and was able to avert that sort of disaster.

Nothing else mattered in the end.

Only family.

* * *

The Governor supervised the shooting range training with narrowed eyes, feeling sourly displeased. Out of the many people living under his gracious care, only half could handle a weapon properly and even less shoot a target without missing it entirely.

This was not a good prospect for him. The people of the prison were battle tested. They had some good warriors on their side and could pose a threat if he did not shape up his people. In the end, the Governor could count upon his numbers. If the two factions were put side by side, he had Rick and his people surrounded. And he also counted upon his soldiers—the battle-hardened ones and not the bullet fodder before him. If some of them died, it would not bother the man in any way. The prison might not have enough space for all of them. Thinning the herd seemed the obvious choice.

The day of the exchange drew closer. Soon, Michonne would be in his hands once more and, this time, she would not be able to escape so quickly. She will wish she had never escaped her small, dark room. What he will do to her was the fuel for nightmares.

And Merle…There was a special place for him. The Governor did not forget or forgive so lightly, especially betrayals.

As his dark thoughts engulfed all of his attention, the Governor missed the wariness in which Shumpert approached him. The usually stoic man tittered on the brink with sweat pouring abundantly down his brow.

"Sir."

Were they being attacked? Had Rick relinquished their deal and was now attacking? So many scenarios filtered through the Governor's mind it left him scratching at his bandaged eye, but he could not mistake the spark of violence that ignited in his veins, warming his blood. He could practically taste the coppery aroma, giving him an inexplicable high.

"The biters." Shumpert gasped heavily as he recovered his breath from his run. "Someone burned the pits."

That…had been unexpected. The Governor had anticipated something of a more aggressive nature, but the real cause left him with a bitter taste. He would not be getting his wish today, it seemed.

But now the real question—Who was the culprit?

"Have you checked the guards? Did they see anythin' suspicious?"

Shumpert shook his head. "Nothing on the fence. It's been quiet all day. Nothing at night either."

What was happening? Did someone from Rick's group infiltrate his town and performed a coup? …Or did one of his own revolt? It would not be the first time it happened, but unfortunately the primary suspects were either dead or away from Woodbury. The Governor doubted Martinez had a change of heart or that any of his men did. They were behind him a hundred percent. Loyal men.

If he had to pick from his herd, he would choose Karen as an instigator. The woman not only participated in the mutiny but had also outspoken against him several times even after that fated day. If it were anyone that would attempt another plot against him it would be her.

"Shumpert…Have Karen brought to my apartment. I need to have a _talk_ with her."

The man nodded with his usual air of graveness and before departing, he paused and turned back to the Governor. "Should I get Milton as well?"

"What for?" Governor asked perplexed.

The taller man indicated the Governor's bandaged eye that he was still fixated on, scratching an itch he seemingly could not appease. As if burnt, the Governor let his bandaged hand drop. He had not even noticed his actions, but to be truthful, his eye had been bothering him all day. Calling Milton might not be such a bad idea.

"Do it."

Watching Shumpert depart, the Governor felt a shiver roll down his spine. Something was amiss, indeed. He felt like he was missing a bigger part of the picture. As if a fog had settled over his eyes and he could not see the path anymore. The answer was right over yonder, at the end of the mist, but whatever he did, he could not see it.

This will eat at him all day, he grumbled.

* * *

He had to do this quick. Packing his supplies had to be a precise and duplicitous action, done in the dark and away from prying eyes. Gathering them hadn't been easy either, especially without being seen or heard. Ever since his outburst, he had felt eyes on him wherever he walked. He knew the quarterback or the damn Indian gave out the order for him to be watched like a hawk. If he had known this opportunity would present itself, he would have kept his mouth shut. It wouldn't be long before the others noticed objects missing, but by then Merle hoped that he will be long gone.

He had no idea how this idea sprung into his mind but once it did, he could no longer shake it off. It ate away at his thoughts, pushing him into action until he broke under the strain. Now…now he knew that it was the _only_ way. The final choice.

Rick might not have the balls, on the account of his _morals_ , but Merle sure as hell did. Who else could do it but the _bad man_ himself?

In the end, what was one person in the face of many? Merle could not risk his life and his brother's on an all-out war with the Governor. Out of everyone here in this prison, Merle knew him best. Knew what he was capable of when highly motivated. If there was a chance, even a minute one, that this battle could be avoided, Merle would take it even if the others were too scared to do it.

"Merle?"

He froze. He knew that voice, even at a distance.

With a curse under his breath, Merle threw everything he gathered into a duffel and threw it into the shadowy parts of the generator room just as the voice neared. If Daryl got even a whiff of what he was planning, it would be lights out on his plan. Apparently, his brother had found his moral compass while traipsing around Georgia with these freaks and would not be pleased by Merle's spark of ingenuity.

"You down here? Merle!"

"Over here!"

A scuffle of boots and his little brother appeared, frowning as always. Although, Merle noticed that his frown lacked the sustenance it once carried. It was almost as if he contorted his features out of familiarity than aggravation.

"Hey, little brother. Was just about to holler back at ya."

 _Better not stay long, brother. Still got a lot to finish up._

"What you doin' down here?" Daryl's eyes darted around, searching for the source of his brother's presence. He knew him all too well. Knew there had to be a good reason.

"Just lookin' for a little crystal meth." The lie rolled off his tongue without any effort, knowing that Daryl would believe it without a doubt. "Yeah, yeah, I know. Shit mess my life up when everythin' is goin' so sweet, right?"

As expected, Daryl gave him a disgruntled scowl.

Merle lost the devilish grin and approached his brother, his steps light and watchful. He wanted to confront his brother, see his convictions face to face. The more they lived together, the more Merle lost touch with him. The older Dixon swore that he had felt closer to his little brother when fields upon fields kept them apart. Now…Merle felt like talking to a stranger.

"I heard y'all talk. You and Officer Friendly." He whistled lowly, observing the small changes in his brother's composure—the surprise, the uneasiness, until finally it settled into annoyance. "That's a tough choice."

"It ain't gonna happen."

"Got that right…" Merle chuckled under his breath. "Rick ain't got the stomach for it."

The frown on his brow settled into a light glare. "It ain't about havin' the guts to do it. Michonne's part of us. It would be like handin' Maggie or Glenn or—"

"Your lady friend?" Merle scoffed, almost hearing his brother's thoughts on that idea. Daryl and his toys…He never knew when to let go of them. It was useless hanging onto people that one had no relation to. Family Merle understood, but everything else could be easily replaced—lost a friend? Make a new one. Honey ran off with the undead neighbor? Find another. It wasn't that hard, but for some reason only Daryl could conjure he stuck to these people like glue.

—Never get attached. People died so easily these days that it was almost laughable. Merle knew that more intimately than anyone.

"You know…" Merle started as the memories rolled to the forefront of his mind. Bloody days of the past that always had him reevaluating the man he was following. "When we'd go out on runs, the Governor would bash somebody's skull, slash somebody's throat and he'd say, ' _Never waste a bullet_.'"

The first time he witnessed the Governor's brutality, Merle knew at once what he was dealing with. Spend the majority of your life around the dredges of society and you tend to form an eye for those sort of people. And the Governor was the type of wolf in sheep's clothing, mingling with the unknowing masses, just waiting for the excuse to bare his sharp teeth and go for the throat.

"Daryl, what you think will happen once the Governor rolls in? Do you think he'll show mercy? Do you think we'll escape somehow to fight another day? No…No. No." Merle chuckled, but the humor never reached his dead eyes. "He'll take Michonne alive. He's gonna do things to her. Probably take out one of her eyes. Both of 'em, most likely. Samara…he'll take her too. She tricked him. He ain't likely to forget that soon. Me as well. I was his Judas. The others...he'll kill them slowly while Rick watches. He'll save him for last. And you…" Merle grimaced as the endless possibilities rolled through his consciousness. "He'll make me watch you _die_ to punish me."

His blue eyes focused intently on his kin. He needed to fully understand his decision and the possible consequences that might derive from it.

"You want everyone to suffer 'cause of one person?"

Daryl hesitated for a fraction of a second. It didn't escape Merle's eyes but the moment was long gone and instead this Daryl he did not know took his little brother's place.

"Whatever Rick says, goes."

And there it was, what Merle loathed to hear. This doppelganger was unwelcome in Merle's eyes. From his rough and rather gruff little brother he became a no nonsense, 'yes man'. If only Merle could just shake him out of this trance, dispel the trickery the sheriff weaved over his eyes. Maybe somewhere hidden deep down, he would find his little brother again.

"Do you even possess a pair of balls? Are they even attached? You used to call people like that sheep." Merle's frown deepened, his anger visible, but there was no mistaking the spark of sadness deep within. "What happened to you?"

"What _happened_?" Daryl scoffed as if Merle should know better. "What happened was you and Glenn! Rick and Michonne! And Samara!"

In the end, it would all come down to what happened in Woodbury. How Merle took part in the Governor's brutality instead of stopping it. Like he actually could without endangering his own hide, and for who? People he did not like or care for. Merle was not in the business of risking his own neck when there was nothing important to gain.

"You need to grow up. Things are different now." Merle snapped, having heard enough. Daryl was talking like some idiot in a fairy-tale book. "Your people look at me like I'm the devil for grabbin' up those three. Now y'all thinkin' of doin' the same damn thing—snatch someone up and deliver them to the Governor." Merle smiled a crude and cruel leer, not a trace of guilt present in those sharp angles. "People do what they got to do or they die."

It was a universal fact. In this world, your own best interest was what mattered, everything else was second. And if it meant trampling on others to achieve it…then so be it.

"Can't do things without people anymore, man." And with that his brother rejected his belief as if they were cold leftovers. Somewhere deep down, Merle felt his heart take a piercing stab.

It felt disheartening knowing that bit by bit he was losing his brother entirely until finally…only blood united them and nothing more.

"Maybe these people need somebody like me around, huh?" His voice was gravelly at this point, to the Georgia man's utter devastation. "Do their dirty work. The _bad_ _guy_."

He knew what he was. Had never doubted his purpose on this earth. It had been ingrained into him since he was a kid, by society and his family. But if it meant his brother got to live then he would willingly take up that role. He wondered if Daryl thought the same of him. Was he the necessary evil in his life? That constant devil on his shoulder whispering wicked thoughts into his ear? But then, a thought invaded his mind, one that left his skin cold and his brain mush—Was Merle even _needed_ anymore? Daryl had people here, a group that he seemed to cherish despite all odds. Did Merle still have a place alongside him or did his little brother outgrow him?

A jarring notion.

"Yeah, maybe that's how it is now…" Merle laughed, but it was a sad and discouraged chortle. Hope was leaving him, the invisible thread linking him to his last living family weakening by the minute. "I gotta be the big bad wolf among all y'all sheep. How does that hit you?"

The way Daryl looked at him…it tore at his heartstrings. There was a deep haunting melancholy in those blue eyes that told of countless memories of bitterness. Merle knew, could see them plain as day. He knew how his brother must have suffered all those years alone with their asshole father. Merle had bitten out of that rotten apple himself.

"I just want my brother back."

Merle's breath hitched. The stinging took a sharp turn as he felt tears moisten his eyes.

"Get out of here."

He pushed his brother away before their conversation turned anymore emotional. He did not wish to shed tears, especially in front of another person, be it his brother or not. They were Dixon men. They did not cry like little girls.

Seeing his brother's departing back strengthened his resolve. His mission now had more purpose than ever. He had to do it and no one else, and if Daryl will come to hate him for his deed then so be it. He'd rather have his brother angry than dead.

Merle will give everything in his power so that those faded angel wings will not get tarnished with blood.

* * *

Governor paced like a wild animal in a cage, restless and frustrated.

 _Where is he?_

For the past hour, he and Shumpert had been searching for their wayward scientist turned doctor with no luck to be found. At first, the Governor had thought Milton had just retreated somewhere more private after their discussion to lick his wounds but now it seemed like he had vanished into thin air. Neither one of his favorite spots had been frequented. That feeling of edginess that the Governor had been carrying around ever since the shooting range was now tenfold. He felt like he was about to burst.

Worse, because of this unforeseen circumstance he had not been even able to speak to Karen yet. Martinez was probably still keeping her at his apartment, both waiting for his arrival. He should be there right now, extracting the truth, instead he was in Milton's studio searching for hints of his whereabouts. Why was he here? Because of that damned feeling in his gut telling him that something was not right and he was just not seeing it.

The door to the studio squeaked on rusty hinges and Shumpert's large form appeared in the dim room. _Alone_.

"You still haven't found him." It wasn't even a question at this point.

Shumpert shook his head, the frown on his forehead deeper than ever. He too seemed perplexed at their resident scientist's disappearance. "I'm starting to believe he's not even in Woodbury anymore, sir."

"That's ridiculous." The Governor scoffed in incredulity. "Milton wouldn't—"

" _How does this help Woodbury?"_

And there it was…The path out of the fog. Like a bloodhound, the Governor followed its trace to their conversation this morning. At that time, he had not taken into account Milton's strange words or the desperation spilling out of him like a fountain.

But he wouldn't…Would he?

Milton was _afraid_ of him. He would never openly defy him, much less betray. It wasn't in his cowardly nature. But in these past few weeks, stranger things have happened. If he were to look back, he could clearly see the signs of Milton backing away from his shadow and tip-toeing around him into the light.

" _Did you set loose biters on those people? Was that why you traveled to the prison?"_

Karen had no idea where he kept the biters, but Milton did and it wouldn't be too hard for him to procure some gasoline. No wonder nobody seemed to have seen Milton. The man had a gift of never being noticed. A consequence of his meek nature, and a blessing in disguise.

"Goddammit…"

He had to be sure. The Governor could not overlook any leads, even if it was the most unlikeliest. If Milton had left Woodbury he knew where to—the prison. Where else would the man go but to the very people the Governor opposed? Milton knew his plans, knew all the defenses and offenses of Woodbury. He could divulge everything and crumble his plans to dust. The man wanted peace above all else, and it seemed he was prepared to walk over the Governor's grave to achieve it.

—And the Governor would _not_ have it.

"Sir, where are you going?" Shumpert shouted as the Governor left the studio in a hurry.

The man said nothing as he broke into a sprint, ignoring the pain coming from his lower body. He could not focus on that now, he needed to recover Milton before he set foot on the prison grounds. He had a good head's start, at least five or six hours. At this point, the Governor did not know if Milton had procured a car or not outside Woodbury. If he did…it might already be too late. His only salvation now was the hope that Milton traveled the distance on foot.

In his frenzy, the man wondered when his meek mouse gathered the courage to break free. The Governor's chains were not that easy to shake off, especially for a man like him.

Had Milton lost his mind? Was he seeking death? That would be the only outcome from his little mutiny. The Governor would show no mercy, even if they had known each other since the plague devastated their hometown. The man was not even heavily surprised that Milton chose to betray him. It had been inevitable. In the end, nobody was to be trusted. He had no friends here, nobody he could call close. They would all run at the first opportunity when something better turned around the corner.

…All those countless days driving around Georgia with no end in sight. Fending off biters and the occasional desperate person. The long nights spent in fear of what lay beyond the dark. Finding Woodbury and building a community out of a group of scared individuals. Retrieving Penny…

All of those struggles the two men had shared burnt to a crisp in the Governor's mind. He purged any emotion from those memories, leaving behind only an empty dream he once had of a man named Milton.

He just wished the man would struggle once he found him. At least then the Governor would be able to vent the seething anger that was building underneath his skin.

The hourglass had turned, the sand flowing with nervous speed.

The hour of the Reaper was close at hand.

* * *

Daryl scrunched his nose. Despite the fact that the food in his plate smelled delicious, he could not swallow even a bite of it. Languidly, he played with his fork, pushing and pulling bits of meat and peas on his plate. He had no appetite, his mind far too preoccupied with his increasingly worrying thoughts.

This business with Michonne was disquieting. He knew Rick would never go through with it, but the dark voices at the back of his mind whispered the contrary—that even for a moment, his friend had entertained the thought. It was a lost cause even if he went through with it. The Governor would not be content with one life. Daryl had read him and knew he craved blood with a vengeance. The man was a deranged best without a leash to restrain him. He was far too dangerous to trust, even remotely.

Later on, he would meet with Rick and rebuke his plan. The sheriff wanted a select group to surround the location of the exchange and ambush the Governor and his men with Michonne as the bait. Unfortunately, Daryl had too little faith in this plan. Something didn't sit right with his gut, and he trusted his instincts above all else. They had never led him astray.

And Merle—

The fact that he had overheard their private conversation made him uneasy. His brother was a cunning beast. A hundred ideas could spring to his mind at a drop of a hat. He hadn't seen anything worrying down in the generator room and he retained the benefit of a doubt when it came to his brother. Daryl would not think the worst. Even _if_ he did something irredeemable, there were over a dozen people here at the prison keeping their eyes and ears peeled. Merle made one disconcerting move and Daryl would know.

But even knowing this he could not shake off the uneasy feeling crawling like thin spider legs over his spine…

In defense, his muscles clenched as a shadow engulfed him. Samara stood above him with her own plate in hand, her eyes unreadable as she gazed down on his 'work of art'. Without a word, the woman sat opposite him, leaning against the railing of the upper level. He hadn't seen the Indian since early morning when she left his cell for her watch duty, only catching a glimpse or two of her. Suited him fine since Rick dropped the informative bomb on him this morning. He had been too on edge and the woman would have picked up on it and hounded him until he spilled his secrets. She did not need to know, at least not yet.

It seemed Samara's choice of eating area had attracted a few wayward stares. He could feel them on his skin, but he did not dare peek below at the group. The Georgia hunter had no clue what the others thought of the two of them _suddenly_ becoming more comfortable around each other after months of apparent distance. Some had an idea, while others retained naïve thoughts. He just wished they wouldn't ogle them like zoo animals. It wasn't like they were a pair now. In fact, Daryl did not even know how to classify their relationship or if they even had one. Friends with benefits? Reluctant lovers? It was a complete grey area.

The Indian did not seem to mind the attention as she calmly ate from her plate. He knew that she was aware from the slight hunch in her shoulders, but the woman chose to ignore them. How he wished he could be as nonchalant as her in this situation. Daryl never really did well in the spotlight.

Even her presence could not calm the raging storm crashing against his skull. The conversation he had with Merle kept looping inside his mind with keen intensity. Something hadn't been right about it and he couldn't put his finger on it. Peering from his vantage point, he could see no disturbance in his older brother's body language. The man ate his meal in silence, away from the group, occasionally smoking a cigarette to which some of the others wrinkled their nose at. There was no tension or keen awareness to the man, simply a state of lethargy.

It did not fit well at all with the younger Dixon…

"You're going to chew your thumb off."

Surprised, Daryl found himself gnawing on the skin of his thumb, leaving an angry red strip in its wake. When had he started was unknown to him, but it seemed his childhood habit was in full throttle today.

"Dammit…" He wiped the bead of blood away and tried to focus on his food once more. His appetite was, unfortunately, still nonexistent.

"What's wrong?"

"Merle." Daryl sighed and put his plate down, the food having gone cold some time ago. "Something ain't right with him."

"As in?"

Daryl studied the woman. She seemed genuinely interested, but not in the least worried. Understandable, as she did not exactly have the best opinion of his brother.

"Talked to him earlier. Didn't sound like himself." Daryl frowned at the strangeness of their conversation. Every word uttered seemed like an ultimatum. "Like some kind of alien takin' on his skin."

Samara chuckled under her breath, igniting the younger Dixon's irritation.

"It ain't funny."

The Indian at least had the decency to lose her amusement, but even with this new information she did not seem even slightly perturbed.

"What did he say that's got you all riled up?"

Daryl's lips pursed. He wanted to tell her about the Governor's condition but thought better of it. Samara would get angry and quite possibly cause a scene. It was bad enough Merle knew, he did not need the whole group panicking over something as ridiculous as that. Now was not the time to doubt themselves or their leader. They had to remain strong.

"Stuff."

He did not need to look at Samara to visualize the flat expression she wore.

"It must've been some mighty uneasy _stuff_." Samara deadpanned in her most monotonous voice.

Daryl sighed, having anticipated her dreary response. In truth, he did not feel comfortable telling her his fears. When it came to him and Merle, Daryl usually kept it between themselves. It was family business after all, and Samara…as he had said before, he did not know where he stood with her.

With that train of thought he was immediately reminded of his almost amicable conversation with Martinez.

"Samara…when you lived in Woodbury, did you ever think about stayin' there?" For some reason he felt his throat close up.

"As in for good?" Samara eyed him strangely, perplexed by his line of thinking. "No. Why would I stay?"

"But if you'd never met us, would you?"

It was fleeting, but Daryl caught the tiny flame that lit up the olive of her eyes before the veil of shrewdness covered all aspects of her thoughts, hoarding herself once again.

"I'm not really in the business of 'what if's', Daryl."

That hadn't been an answer. She was avoiding, and perhaps it was better if he didn't know. Martinez's words had only managed to poison him with doubts. Maybe that had been his intention from the beginning. Maybe, maybe…In the end, the course they were currently on had led them to join forces. Perhaps it had been fate or some other higher power, but Daryl was glad he had met her first. For better or worse, Samara was someone that always kept him on his toes.

With her plate half finished, Samara set it away and crawled over to him, careful of the bandages and sling around her arm. Despite his slight reluctance, Samara caged his self-injured thumb with her hands and lightly kissed the gash. It stung, but not unpleasantly. Daryl just hoped that nobody was looking their way now because he just knew his ears were bright red and his cheeks painted a rosy color. At this point, there was no difference between him and a school boy standing near his crush.

Even now, after all this time, she still managed to affect him greatly with just a tiny, simple gesture.

"You shouldn't worry so much." She huskily said, her fingers stroking the skin of his palm. "Your brother's an asshole. He probably wanted to fuck with your head."

"I know his games and that ain't one of them."

Daryl knew he had seen Merle's eyes glisten with unshed tears. It had _frightened_ him to the bone. He hadn't seen his brother cry, not since they were little kids. Very few things in life could bring Merle so low and he hoped to God the man wasn't about to do something harmful to both of them.

"It was…"

 _Like he was sayin' goodbye._

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_ So, we're nearing the end, guys. There are three more chapters to go until Folsom is finished and on to the next part. I had hoped I would finish it by the end of the year, but meh…delays happen.


End file.
